


Silver Lining

by lilysmiles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Animagus, Creature Fic, Dragons, Gen, Heir of Slytherin, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Parseltongue, Reincarnation, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 63
Words: 42,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilysmiles/pseuds/lilysmiles
Summary: In the Chamber of Secrets incident Draco Malfoy was the very first and only suspect.What if he actually is the heir of Slytherin?SI Draco Malfoy into Jon Snow
Comments: 86
Kudos: 295





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Draco Malfoy had a secret.

It wasn’t something small either.

It was life-changing.

More-so, it was his mother’s secret.

What secrets does Narcissa Malfoy hide, do you ask?

Oh many…

But Draco’s secret?

It wasn’t one of hers.

Because Narcissa Malfoy nee Black?

She was not his mother.

From a young age, Draco was mostly alone.

Narcissa was always away in France. He would be lucky if he saw her at least once a month. His father was always busy.

And other children?

What children?

There were none.

Draco’s time was spent getting molded by tutors and in the company of House Elves. He actually spent so much time around them that he began to think of himself as a strangely deformed House Elf.

His father was most displeased at finding his son trying to clean the floors.

Lets just say that Draco never associated himself with House Elves again. And the House Elf? The one that showed him how to mop?

Well…

Lucius wanted to give him clothes, but ended up selling him to join the Hogwarts Elven community.

Good riddance…

That Elf was crazy anyway.

Draco _really_ doesn’t want to see Dobby ever again.

But the consequences of that incident were much greater than he would have expected.

His father stopped treating him like talking furniture. He actually spent time with him! He even smiled at him!

He was so happy.

But like good things, it didn’t last.

Because one incident changed everything.

Chapter 1

When Draco first spoke to a snake, it was an ordinary day and was written off as a mundane occurrence by his young mind.

The little snake that called itself _Hhhhhsss_ was actually very nice. And although it kept calling him Speaker for some reason, he had fun. For the first time in forever he had made a friend.

Every day since he made sure to make time to visit his scaly friend.

 _Hhhhhsss_ didn’t mind.

But for some reason, all the games they played were called the same by the little snake.

Teaching a hatchling how to hunt was a very new way to describe a game of Chase or Hide-and-Seek. But Draco loved it.

No longer was he lonely.

No longer was he alone.

He even brought the little snake into his bed to keep it warm during the winter.

But as the little snake grew into a big snake, he became more and more difficult to hide.

So it was of no surprise that one day, when Lucius came to give his son a good-night kiss a dozing Draco was woken by a high-pitched shriek.

It wasn’t a noise one would expect any male to be capable of.

But then again, _Papa_ was always such a drama queen.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Finding a massive snake in your son’s bed is something parents see in nightmares. And Draco? He was no Hercules.

He was a mortal.

A child.

But he was safe.

Although the true reason for his safety was something Lucius wished to forever bury.

Once upon a time, when Lucius was young, when he was naïve, when he believed in good things, he looked up to his father. Loved him. Adored him. Awaited his every word of approval alike a dog licking the heels of its master. He never thought that there would be a time when he would internally curse at any mention of Abraxas Malfoy.

But what can he say…

He was a child.

He isn’t one anymore.

He hadn’t been one in a very long time.

He always knew that his father supported the Dark Lord. It was a given. And he thought he did as well. Because mudbloods? With their disregard of wizarding customs and beliefs, with their jealousy of the heritage, wealth and power of purebloods were lesser. It was a fact.

What many chose to ignore was that the ancestors of present-day purebloods had to be mudbloods at some point. Pureblooded wizards didn’t just appear one day. The origin of so-called family magics is also a fact that is shunned and covered up. Because marrying creatures? Even for abilities? Despicable.

The present-day Malfoys themselves had a Veela ancestor. 

And it was recent enough to be considered tarnishing.

But they had no choice really. A pureblood family descended from High Elves, cursed to have a single male child per a generation. It was a desperate attempt to lift the curse. An attempt the once-widespread family had to resort to.

It didn’t work.

Instead of a female child being born, thereby lifting the curse, the resulting heir was once-again male. With certain Veela characteristics usually absent from their male offspring, but a male nonetheless.

No longer were the Malfoys proud of their Elven looks and mannerisms. Because those? They were the only abilities of their Elven ancestors they had left.

From that moment on every Malfoy scion was secretly a male version of a Veela.

Lucius was no exception.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When he was brought before the Dark Lord to take the mark, Lucius was proud.

How could he not be?

His father knew what he was doing after all. Abraxas Malfoy was not one to place his support behind losers. The Dark faction will finally victorious. And the Malfoys with it.

But he was wrong.

His father was not infallible.

Abraxas Malfoy, for the first time in his life made a grave mistake. And he dragged Lucius, his only heir and son in with him.

In just a few years, proud aristocrats were debased to terrorists. With so many opportunities, with the Ministry being run by mostly purebloods, it was a matter of some planning and political action to have the pureblood superiority shine above the rest once more. But instead of that, the once proud gems of magical society were reduced to being slaves to the whims of an insane half-blood with distant and questionable descent from Salazar Slytherin.

More so, the half-blood was not happy with just their service. No. he wanted more.

It begun with Bellatrix Lestrange. The beautiful but insane witch was all over the Dark Lord. But the matter of her fidelity was only the concern of the Lestranges. After all, she was a very willing participant.

But the despicable monster turned his eye towards what he couldn’t easily have. And so the fate of young Regulus Black and Lucius Malfoy was set.

Neither of them were happy.

And Regulus, the secretly impulsive teenager that was more alike his elder brother than most would have thought, rebelled. And went missing.

Unlike his unfortunate and very dead, according to the Black family tapestry, compatriot Lucius was wise enough not to act rashly. But it was something he would never be able to forgive. He just chose to act with a rational mind. That is all.

But his plans were all for naught.

Because a month later he started getting sick. He couldn’t hold any food down. He was always drowsy. His magic was continuously fluctuating.

And the family healer didn’t give him any good news. He really did have more Veela in him than he knew.

And he was pregnant.

And scared.

He couldn’t let his father know. Or the Dark Lord. Especially the Dark Lord.

He had to think of something before the child is born.

And he did.

He wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Narcissa Malfoy was beautiful.

She always new that.

But for all her beauty, for all her pure blood, she didn’t have happiness. And she knew she never would. Because she was hollow. A beautiful picture on the outside with nothing meaningful on the inside. Her upbringing made sure of that.

But that was the fate of most pureblood ladies. They had no choice as to whom they will be sold off to. They could only hope that their parents’ choice would be bearable.

When her oldest sister Bellatrix tried to argue her upcoming match to the Lestrange heir, the younger Black sisters had no choice but see the consequences. And if their elder sister shook from Crucio aftershock for weeks leading up to her wedding? It didn’t matter. What happened to her body no longer mattered. Because their beloved sister? The sweet but temperamental Bellatrix who would tell them bedtime stories and secretly taught them how to ride their father’s Hippogriffs? She was gone. Dead. Her mind was no longer there. What walked down to that altar was not their sister. Not anymore.

And they were next.

Unlike Narcissa, Andromeda was strong. She was alike Bella in that sense. But unlike the eldest Black she had the sense to bide her time. She didn’t act immediately. She hoped for the best. That maybe, just maybe her match will be bearable.

It wasn’t.

The Selwyn Lord was despicable.

It wasn’t just that he was three times older than the fifteen year old Andromeda. She could have lived with that. But the fate of his two previous wives? The ones who conveniently went ‘missing’? And while she never met the first one, the one that was scared to lift her eyes off the floor during each and every public function without his permission was more than enough to form an opinion. To know that she didn’t want _that_. She wanted better.

So when a sweet Hufflepuff Ted Tonks started blushing every time he saw her, she saw her chance.

After all, you can’t marry off a married woman.

And she was right.

The resulting scandal was just a little shy of the latest ‘Weasley marriage’.

What Andromeda didn’t take into account was that her actions will be detrimental to her little sister. But she was always a bit selfish. She only wanted to be safe, but other consequences? She didn’t think about those at all.

But while Narcissa had to bear with continuous supervision and more ‘proper pureblooded wife’ training, her parents at least had the sense not to offer her as a replacement to an enraged Selwyn. If that was only because she was already promised to a Malfoy, no one has to know.

Had it been anyone else, had the bride price offered by Selwyn been higher, her fate would have been bleak.

But there was no one in wizarding Britain that could out-pay the Malfoys.

She was lucky.

They both were.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t happy.

Far from it.

But she had the sense to appreciate what she had.

And if Lucius and her didn’t have a love of old poems or all-consuming lust of songs… well… it could have always been worse. At least they had potential. To become if not loved ones than close friends.

She was good with that.

And so was he.

But fate just had to ruin a perfect setting.

When a year passed into their marriage and she didn’t fall pregnant they weren’t worried. After all, it was only a year. But at the end of the third she grew concerned.

And she had all the rights to be.

Because the healer?

He proclaimed her barren.

And she didn’t know what to do.

A barren pureblooded lady is a disgrace. Had she not been married her fate would have been unspeakable. After all, she had heard enough horror stories to be able to judge. The ladies and girls no one talks about. The ones that have been sold overseas as slaves. Those bought to be used in rituals. Just like her family bought magical slaves from Africa for sacrifices another could have bought Narcissa Black.

So when Lucius came clean about his ‘condition’ she was glad.

She was safe.

And if her only role in the child’s life would be a timely blood adoption as to not raise suspicion, she was fine with that.

Draco Malfoy was a beautiful babe.

But he was not her babe.

And for all that she cared for him, for all that he was her only chance at motherhood, she couldn’t find it within herself to love him unconditionally as a mother should. So when Lucius agreed to her request to live in France she was secretly glad for the distance.

Perhaps, just perhaps if he was truly hers not just adopted into her line she would have raised him herself. Pampered him. Spoiled him rotten. Rained all the love she was capable of but couldn’t show onto him. Would have been more resolute on sending Draco to Hogwarts when Lucius decided on the Durmstrang Institute.

But he wasn’t hers.

And that made all the difference.

Perhaps it is better that way.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Draco was glad to study in Durmstrang. He honestly was. Regardless of the tantrum he threw at age eleven when his Hogwarts letter was ignored by _Papa_.

He is glad for it.

After all, Lucius Malfoy knew best.

Draco didn’t.

He had these delusions. That he will come to Hogwarts and be the Prince of Slytherin. Befriend Harry Potter, the most popular boy in all of wizarding Britain. Decipher the secrets left behind by his famous ancestor, Salazar Slytherin. And maybe, just maybe, his other parent will be proud. After all, he didn’t have any way to know. The Dark Lord was very dead.

Until he wasn’t.

Draco was long overdue a reality check. He didn’t think that Hogwarts was controlled by Albus Dumbledore. That at the slightest suspicion of a relation with the Dark Lord he would find a way to check. That Draco would never be safe at Hogwarts. It wouldn’t be his home. That he could be sent into the Forbidden Forest for punishment and _never come back_. That Harry Potter was a Light puppet, brainwashed into a Gryffindor point of view. That he wouldn’t be the pureblood heir James Potter was, that wasn’t above a friendship with a Black. That he was little better than a mudblood.

But regardless of the rumors flying about Hogwarts, about Cerberuses, Basilisks and Dementors. About the ‘Savior’ murdering and maiming teachers. Draco couldn’t believe them. They were too wild. They just couldn’t be true. Could they?

So when the Durmstrang delegation was chosen for the Triwizard tournament, Draco was among them. 

But he wasn’t the naive eleven year-old he once was. He wouldn’t run into trouble. He would gather information before considering an approach.

And he was right.

Harry Potter turned out to be little more than a hoax. The other teen wore strange muggle rags that no sane wizard would ever wear. But maybe that was the fashion in the muggle world. Draco wouldn’t know. But he would hope not.

Harry Potter wore glasses. Real glasses. Not an artifact.

What kind of wizard wears ordinary glasses? When all sorts of potions and rituals can fix the slightest alignment? Maybe he was sentimental? But then again James Potter wore artifact glasses. Those that allowed him to see magical currents. Couldn’t he use those?

In Harry Potter’s world the word etiquette simply didn’t exist.

And more so, Harry Potter was stupid.

Or smart.

Who knows.

Because getting his name into the Goblet was something that required magical expertise. He should have been proud. But he wasn’t. He was in denial.

And if he truly didn’t put his name in, a single magical oath would have solved all his problems.

Idiot.

Or genius.

Either he doesn’t know how to get out of his new ‘adventure’ or he is faking distress. The second of which is much more believable.

And so Draco chose avoidance. He wanted nothing to do with the so-called savior. A boy that came running back to those that shunned and betrayed him as soon as they said ‘sorry’.

To Draco a sorry was never good enough. He would never trust his back to someone who had once betrayed him, because once a traitor, always a traitor. But Harry Potter chose to ignore that.

He was a lost cause.

And that was sad. Draco would have loved to have a serpent-speaking wizard for a friend.

In another life maybe…


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

When the Dark Lord came back, Draco didn’t know how to feel.

He should be happy.

He should be.

He wasn’t.

He was scared.

The Dark Lord was not the father he imagined him to be. Such a man could never know about Draco’s parentage. He could basically _smell_ the crazy on him.

What made it worse were the appreciative glances.

 _That_ was definitely not the kind of attention he wanted to receive from his own _father_ thank you very much. Especially one that looks like a failed alchemical experiment where a human was cross-bred with a snake. Malfoys have better taste than _that_.

Luckily, he wasn’t the only one to notice. Lucius was as vigilant as ever. The summer after his fourth year was the last time he ever went home. It was France with Narcissa from then onward.

To say that the Dark Lord was furious was an understatement. More so that the Malfoy heir didn’t take his mark.

But oh well. Too bad, so sad.

Draco was safe.

For now.

But in his seventh year things went from bad to worse. Britain was a war zone.

And Lucius was trapped.

He didn’t know what he would have done if they didn’t have Narcissa. She was a lifesaver. Literally.

She kept the calm. And he was always welcome to stay with her in France. He didn’t have to come back to Britain. Didn’t have to take the Dark Mark. Didn’t have to participate in raids. Didn’t have to fear for his life by staying in the vicinity of the Dark Lord.

But regardless of all the good things, some conversations he would have loved to avoid.

Especially the last one he had with _Papa_.

Because it wasn’t really a conversation.

It was goodbye.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Draco didn’t know how Lucius made it out of Britain without alerting anyone. Not even Narcissa. But he could guess. The Malfoy family, even with its tarnished reputation still had its fingers in many, _many_ pies.

Upon seeing Lucius, he was happy. They might have not been the most emotional or loving family, but this was his only blood relation that actually gave a damn. He was always glad to see him.

But then he did a double take.

Because where once Lord Malfoy’s supernatural beauty turned heads, now he had lost something. Oh, he was still gorgeous and the muggle girls that passed them by still blushed and giggled, but he was no longer what he once was. Now he looked tired. Gaunt. Resigned. Broken.

And that was terrifying.

Because Draco didn’t think that there was anything that could break Lucius Malfoy. He once thought that his _papa_ would still be the epitome of perfection even staring Death in the face.

He was wrong.

And while he was happy to see him, the upcoming conversation filled Draco with dread.

But when _papa_ discreetly steered him towards a secluded alleyway, grabbed his elbow and pulled him in with a Portkey, Draco didn’t fight. And when they appeared in a very muggle-appearing house he couldn’t muster up any surprise that his pureblood supremacist of a parent not only had the knowledge to fish him out in muggle France, but owned a perfectly muggle house. But then again, such a disguise was perfect. If his own _son_ didn’t expect such from Lucius Malfoy, then his enemies and ‘friends’ wouldn’t either.

Lucius Malfoy once again showed himself a true Slytherin.

But his own deviousness was the last thing on his mind.

“…Draco…” his voice was a raspy whisper. Barely audible. Far from the enticing baritone he once had.

“ _Papa_ …” Draco had thought that once they meet face-to-face that he would start and wouldn’t be able to stop until he ran out of words. That he would voice all his fears and complaints. All his hopes and dreams. But now that Lucius is before him he found himself lost for words.

“Draco, I have some things I need to tell you. Important things.”

“ _Papa_?”

“Our endeavors aren’t going so well. You have probably guessed that from the limited news that can escape Britain. But for the first time in a long time I cannot predict how the future will affect our family. I have lost the Dark Lord’s favor. If I even had it in the first place… But that doesn’t stop that despicable half-blood from taking base in our mansion and draining our coffers dry. My refusal to make you take the Dark Mark only worsens his ire.

I had even considered changing sides and secretly supporting Dumbledore. However, I thought better of it. One only has to look at Severus Snape for an example of how the Light treats spies. And to think that there was a time when I had considered the man a friend and even thought to make him your godfather…”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Snape was so engrossed with the mudblooded gold-digger Lily Evans that he couldn’t see further than his own nose. As such, he was very open for manipulation. He had thus become a slave for two masters. His loyalty would have never been to you. Especially if he had learnt of your true parentage. And although Barty Crouch Jr. made a terrible absentee of a godparent, I am glad for my choice. Because dead men tell no tales while Snape would have likely ran straight to Dumbledore with our secrets.”

“I did hear things about Snape. How he is so unfit to teach it’s not even funny. How his teaching is torture to both him and his students. How no one knows why he still stays at Hogwarts. How he was a promising researcher once upon a time…”

“That’s one way of putting it. Draco, my son, I have no doubt that the so-called Light will win eventually. Voldemort is no Grindelwald. He is just a terrorist in comparison to a great revolutionary. But regardless of the side we chose to support at the very end, I have little doubt that we will not get away unscathed. It is only through great luck that I had split out fortune at the very beginning of obtaining my Lordship. The official Malfoy accounts hold barely a fifth of it. The rest has either been converted to gold or collects interest in muggle banks for a variety of fake identities.

The Malfoy family library had been moved years ago. We truly are lucky that Abraxas had never actually let the half-blood into it and that the Malfoys were never actually known for their skill or magical power. Someone will certainly receive a surprise upon seeing our collection of Ministry-approved books.

Draco, I have little hope to make it out of this free or even alive. But you? There is absolutely nothing the Ministry or the ‘Light’ could pin onto you. You have no Mark. You didn’t participate in raids. You haven’t even been to Britain in years. However, there is still a chance that they will not be satisfied with whatever will remain in our Gringotts Vaults after the half-blood is through with them. There will likely be attempts to pressure or frame you. After it is all seemingly over, whatever you do, stay out of Britain.”

“But _Papa_!”

“No buts Draco! You are the only thing of true value I have left in this life! I do not want to lose you. Just in case, we will perform multiple rituals brought to our family by our Elven ancestors. They are a Malfoy family secret. You will not tell anyone. Not even Narcissa. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I do. But…”

“No buts Draco. You will not argue with me on this. There are three rituals we must perform. The first will form a pocket dimension connected to your soul. As long as you remember about its existence you will be able to access anything hidden there. I will transfer all the gold left to our name, the family library as well as some necessities. This is so that even in a search, our secrets shall be safe. The second ritual is one that transfers the parent’s magical power to the child upon the parent’s death. And the third…well I hope that you will never have to find out what it is for.”


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Ned Stark was angry.

So angry.

His father was dead.

His elder brother was dead.

His sister was dead.

His beloved Ashara was dead because he was forced to marry a cold Tully fish instead of her.

His younger brother has decided to leave for the Night Watch.

His best friend married the Lion bitch while spouting about his love for Lyanna for all those that would hear.

Did that love even exist? Or was it a rouse? A way to sit upon the Iron Throne? He knows not. But it is not like he is in a position to judge Robert. Because while he had never actually expected to become Lord Paramount of the North, he will not look a gifted horse in the mouth. And yes, while he had planned to marry his sunny Ashara and have children together in Dorne, they were the dreams of a naïve child. He can aim higher now.

And while they do say that wolves do not do well south of the Neck, that is just some common superstition. He was fostered in the Vale and he turned out perfectly fine!

Surely his Tully wife can pop out some girls? Especially if one of them gets the chance to first become a princess and then a queen? It is the only thing she is good for after all. After Ashara, he has no space in his heart left to love another woman.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if she does her wifely duties without complaint, he will even build her a Sept? Who knows?

But now he has harder things to decide on.

Specifically, what to do with his sister’s whelp.

If only he hadn’t been distraught enough to vow to her about the pup’s safety…

Its death would have been very _unfortunate_ …

But he did give his word.

And now he has to stand by it.

Oh, as much as those southern septons confidently preach of the extinction of magic, the Starks know better than to believe in it. You can’t get Direwolves without it after all. And the occasional greenseer and warg in the family just supports their knowledge. But for all the benefits of magical blood that the Starks experience, there is one they could have done without. For a Stark’s word is binding. And he didn’t want to become the first example of what happens when a Stark goes back on a promise in generations. After all, his father hunting down Lyanna to hand her over to Robert was not just the action of a distraught father. Oh, they got her letter. About how she went willingly. But it mattered not. Rickard Stark gave his word that she was to marry Robert. So marry Robert she shall.

It was unfortunate that she refused to give hers. Even at the engagement. It would have made things so much easier…

But now he has a problem.

As a friend and a loyal supporter he should get rid of the whelp. Perhaps more discreetly that Tywin Lannister did of the young heirs, but now he is unable to do even that. Of course, he could make the child’s parentage known, but that would be a stain to his own reputation. So no.

Oh well, he may as well announce the child his own bastard. Such a position would not allow the child to aim high or reach anything significant in life. It would also serve to aggravate his new wife. And if Catelyn takes some liberties in the household’s treatment of the bastard? Well… he will pretend to be both blind and death.

And getting the whelp sent to the Wall once he reaches the minimal age would be a blessing in disguise. You can’t claim your birthright after swearing oaths to the Night Watch after all.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Draco was shocked.

Horrified even.

He didn’t think that _Papa’s_ idea of the ‘worst case scenario’ was realistic. He thought that they would get through it. Persevere through all the hardships… But he was wrong.

Everything just suddenly went from bad to worse.

It was not just the fact that both his parents, the one he loved and the one he loathed, didn’t survive the battle of Hogwarts. That was something he subconsciously expected. He was realistic after all.

But being bed-ridden for months was definitely not on his to-do list. However, he couldn’t just receive another’s magical reserves and continue walking so to speak. After months passed and his recovery was no closer he began to suspect… he was accepting too much power for just inheriting Lucius’s magic.

Although he didn’t defeat Voldemort. Potter did. If anyone inherited the Dark Lord’s power it should have been Potter. The victor takes it all after all.

But Potter was dead. Permanently. And Draco was the Dark Lord’s closest living relative that had stupidly participated in a ritual for receiving their deceased parents’ power.

And all that power was now tearing him apart.

He knew that the British Ministry was looking for him. After all the ‘compensation’ they received from his ‘father’ was non-existent. They wanted more.

They would get nothing.

It would all be over soon enough.

He could feel it.

He was dying.

***

When he closed his eyes for what he felt like was the final time, he didn’t expect to wake up. At all.

But he did.

And he was a newborn. A _Changeling_ …

And while he couldn’t understand what was being said at the time, he could revisit the memory later. Much later. When he knows the language. He didn’t learn to Occlude for nothing after all.

But one thing he knows for certain is that in this life he is on his own. The woman, his new mother is resigned. She has no fight left in her. Her only feelings towards him are a sense of duty. He knows exactly what parental love looks like and the look in her eyes isn’t it.

The man is a harder one to decipher.

His solemn poker-face makes him difficult to read. But he is most definitely not happy about the little bundle of joy that is myself. Oh well…

You can never have it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah...  
> Draco isn't going to be such a spoiled and entitled little shit in this one. I would think the lack of a doting mother that would act like the world revolves around her only child would make a big difference. As well as being sent to the equivalent of a military boarding school.  
> Mind you, he is still going to be his prejudiced, racist self.
> 
> If anyone wonders why Harry died here, well... There was no Draco Malfoy for him to disarm this time. No Mastery of the Elder Wand. So he doesn't get a choice to go back.  
> Basically, the Butterfly Effect in motion.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Draco Malfoy known as Jon Snow in this life was five.

And he was scheming.

He knew that the conversation his ‘father’ had with his mother was important. He just knew it. He just never realized by how much.

Now he did.

Being the child of a murdered Crown Prince of a demoted dynasty is not something you could call insignificant. Especially when the entire realm is convinced that your mother is virtually a saint that was kidnapped, raped and murdered instead of a foolish girl that decided to try her luck with a married Prince who was already a father of two at the time.

Draco, even when applying his best efforts could not muster up any kind of sympathy or understanding for the two of them.

They were both the epitome of individuals with a low IQ. _No one_ could convince him otherwise.

A Prince that not only forsakes his duty but fails to offer any kind of protection to his own children and wife is an idiot not fit to rule. And why for _the love of Merlin_ was most of the _Kings_ guard not only in the service of the _Prince_ but guarding either his second wife or mistress?

And don’t even get him started on his parents’ so-called _marriage_. A Crown Prince cannot marry a random girl out of whim without gaining the permission of the King. At least while remaining a Crown Prince. So we either have a Crown Prince with a wife, two legitimate children, a mistress (as the ‘marriage’ was a farce to get into the girl’s pants) and a bastard or we just have a prince with no right to inherit with two wives and three legitimate children. Prince Duncan was a prime example of what happens when a Crown Prince marries without permission.

And while the existence of such a ‘claim’ would be enough to take the throne in the right circumstances such as an army and extensive noble support, it was the last thing on Draco’s to-do list. Because ruling a bunch of filthy muggles stuck in the Middle Ages? Thanks, no thanks. Especially with the existence of an aggressive Faith that would hunt him down and condemn him for his magic.

Although raising and riding a dragon was something he definitely wanted. But his ‘questionable’ birthright was not something that could stop him in this endeavor. He highly doubts a dragon would demand proof of his legitimacy to allow him to ride it.

So a move to Essos it is then. As soon as he is old enough to not raise too many eyebrows or get too many attempts to be sold off into slavery. Because the ‘hints’ about his potential future at the Wall and how it was such a _Noble_ and _Stark_ thing to do? Those attempts at manipulation are hardly subtle.

But we can’t have the _honorable_ Ned Stark send his bastard to the Wall for no transgressions can we?

At least if said bastard is unwilling…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If dragons only accepted legit Targaryens…
> 
> Draco: Let me ride you? Please?
> 
> Dragon: ID.
> 
> Draco: Here.
> 
> Dragon: ID.
> 
> Draco: ???
> 
> Dragon: I don’t need to see your driver’s license.
> 
> Draco: Here?...
> 
> Dragon: ID
> 
> Draco: WTF?!!!
> 
> Dragon: I don not accept anything other than a birth certificate. Where did you even come from? The list of excepted identification is attached to all the relevant documentation.
> 
> Draco: There were 700 pages of it!!!
> 
> Dragon: It’s called paperwork.
> 
> Draco: So can I ride now?
> 
> Dragon: No.
> 
> Draco: But why?...
> 
> Dragon: Come back when your parents actually get married and I will think about it.
> 
> Draco: MY PARENTS ARE DEAD!!!
> 
> Dragon: Well, bad luck to you then. We only take riders of the highest pedigree here in Westeros. And you do not fulfil one of the relevant criteria listed. This position is not for you. Maybe try your luck with a horse. They have more lenient requirements.
> 
> Draco: FU
> 
> Dragon: Please, there is no need for such language. If you have any comments or suggestions for improvement of our service please use the Inbox provided.
> 
> Standing ovation for everyone who has ever had to claim insurance. Successfully, that is.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Being raised as Jon Snow was very different from being raised as Draco Malfoy.

But then again comparing the life of a bastard to the life of a pureblood heir is difficult. Even if his origins the first time around were questionable at best. Where Draco Malfoy got the best tutors, the newest brooms and had each and every whim catered to by the house elves, Jon Snow got second best in the very best scenario. Where Draco Malfoy was trained in languages, arts and politics, Jon Snow had barely been taught to read. No thanks to Catelyn Stark of course.

That bitch was truly grating on his nerves.

Had he not been a Slytherin at heart or had the patience of a viper, Lord Stark’s Lady wife would have met her unfortunate end years ago. But he couldn’t risk it. After all, the alternative could be much, much worse. And instead of a lady blinded by her spite and unrealized ambitions the household may be ruled by one that had enough brains and attentiveness to uncover the dirty laundry of house Stark and one ‘bastard’ in particular.

It was a stroke of pure luck that Draco used the minuscule morphing abilities he received from his adoption by Narcissa Malfoy nee Black to blend in with his new ‘family’. Can’t have a silver-haired Snow after all. Even one with stormy grey eyes. And so Jon Snow looked the splitting image of a Stark he was expected to be. More so than his legitimate ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’. And no one, not even Ned Stark in all his wisdom seemed to remember that the babe he first saw had silver wisps instead of a Stark black as well as the delicate stature of a true dragon lord and that it was only later that something had changed.

But most men care not about the looks of babes.

And so Draco’s true image was secret from all but himself.

And if late at night he would light a single candle within his _supposedly_ tiny room (Capacious Extremis, Transfiguration and Wards exist for a reason) located in the servant quarters, conjure a mirror and study his true looks? Well… Draco Malfoy was always a narcissist at heart. And if in this life he looked less like Lucius Malfoy and more alike Tom Riddle in his youth? The Tom Riddle that for all the atrocities he had committed at his young age was likened to an angel? An angel that hid the nature of a demon? Well… when Draco finally leaves Winterfell he will most definitely not be recognized. Even by his own mother.

And if he is impatient to shed the name Jon Snow?

Can’t wait to once more become Draco?

No one will be able to connect the dots to judge.

What kind of a name is Jon anyway? It even sounds _muggle_.

Despicable.

Unacceptable.

Disposable.

And Aegon isn’t much better. Being one of a long string of ‘Eggs’?

No thanks.

I will pass…


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Ned Stark didn’t understand where he went wrong with the boy.

He didn’t know where all his aristocratic mannerisms were coming from ( _he did, he was just in denial_ ). After all the boy was a bastard ( _maybe if you repeat it enough times you will start to believe it_ ). But instead of carrying the shame of the crime that was his birth with a demeanor suited to most bastards, the boy had the gall to walk with his head held high and to dare to act equal to his betters.

When he allowed Cat free reign he had expected the boy to complain of his hard fate to all those that would hear him. Perhaps for him to beg for his ‘father’ to speak to his wife. But he didn’t. Not when the boy was given a tiny room among the servants. Not when he was banned from dining with the family. Not when his lessons with the Maester were discontinued ( _for it is above a bastard’s station to sit in on the classes of a future lord_ ) at Catelyn’s behest.

It was even more frustrating that the bastard was extremely gifted with the sword (how was he to know that Draco Malfoy had the best tutors in fencing and martial arts money could buy?), more so than his true-born son Robb. And he couldn’t do anything about it. Not without seeming biased and unjust. And Cat? Oh she did try to mellow down that boy but he continued to repeatedly defeat their own son in combat. She held no authority for the bastard. And he suspected neither did he. After all the boy had never called him father. _Not. Even. Once_.

He was honestly glad for the presence of the Squid. The hostage. The Greyjoy. Although in other circumstances he would have objected to Robb’s friendship with a boy that comes from such a dishonorable family. But at least this way Robb could find some more confidence. Because he was definitely not the only one hearing the whispers among the servants and even other lords of how the bastard was more of a Stark than the true-born half-fish were.

His only hope to put a stop to this farce was to send the menace away to the Night Watch.

He honestly couldn’t wait for Jon to bring the subject up. Because there were no prospects for bastards in the North. It wasn’t Dorne.

It never would be.

Becoming a brother of the Night Watch is the best any Snow can expect from life.

Jon Snow just has to understand that.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

I am leaving.

Fuck this shit. I am totally leaving.

And if I secretly ‘liberated’ the ancient Stark stash lying around since Starks were kings as compensation for my frail nerves? No one has to know. After all, it would be virtually impossible to find without the use of a Point Me charm.

I even managed to uncover some secrets _dear_ Lord Stark would have never wanted me to find. My father’s cloak and _my_ dragon egg were likely those things that were meant to be buried in the crypts. And my words about my father being an idiot? I still stand by those but he is now a lovable idiot that gives wonderful birthday presents to his children.

But I can’t hatch a dragon in Winterfell.

So I have to leave.

And I wouldn’t miss it. In all the years I have lived here, it hasn’t found any place in my heart. And my ‘family’?

Well…

Lord Stark is Lord Stark. Only keeping me alive because of a promise. He would never do more than that. Especially since he and Robert are planning a Royal marriage for Sansa. He would definitely chose his own daughter over a nephew he can’t wait to get rid of.

Lady Stark? That bitch? The previous sentence says it all. I won’t even bother with arranging an ‘accident’ for her. Life will definitely be punishment enough for a woman that despises the North and all its residents.

Robb? Well, with his mother’s ‘help’ we have drifted so far apart that the rift between us will never heal. And he is a jealous prick. So no. I won’t miss him.

Sansa? That miniature version of her mother? But one that lacks a brain? She has the potential to become a vicious bitch that would step over my body to obtain her goals. No thanks.

Arya? Too Gryffindorish. But she is the only person I might actually miss.

Bran? We barely interact. His mother made sure of it.

And Rickon is a baby.

So…

The dragon egg…

It was actually an accident. I swear.

It began with me remembering my serpentine friend from childhood. I loved that snake. I truly did. But it wasn’t magical. It didn’t have the lifespan of a magical serpent. And so when I came back to the manor after my second year and found my beloved friend gone, I was devastated.

And I still am.

If only I was older…

I could have formed a true familiar bond with him. Extended his lifespan. Fed him my magic. But I was a child. With a child’s magical core. A familiar bond before magical maturity is just not possible.

And so the recollection got me thinking…

I definitely remember a dragon egg among the things taken with me from the Tower of Joy. And where would Ned Stark hide such a glaring piece of evidence? Most definitely not in Dorne. At least I would _hope not_.

And maybe Old Nan’s tales finally hold a grain of truth. There are dragon eggs (or egg) beneath Winterfell after all.

I just have to find it.

That’s all.

And I did.

And now it’s _mine_.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

After finally making a decision, it does sometimes get difficult to stand by it. Because just as I was about to leave, the ‘King’ decided to visit. On one hand it could have been an opportunity. But I am not stupid. Nothing good will come out of it. Especially with my parentage.

The last thing I want is to be recognized as a missing ‘prince’. There is just no way that Ned Stark is the only one that knows of my true origins. I am certain that my existence is a card some players are holding to their chests, waiting for the opportune moment for the big reveal. And my survival by the end of the game is doubtful….

Luckily, the commotion of a royal entourage would make it possible to slip away unnoticed. Wouldn’t want a search, would we?

In this new world, the magic is much wilder. Free…

So apparation is out. If I don’t want to arrive in pieces. And while I can’t thank _Papa_ enough for my personal wizarding space that I could access at any time, I had never actually got around to storing away any necessities.

What I wouldn’t give for a broom and a wizarding tent right now… 

But oh well…

I would probably be able to recreate them. But that would require time. Time that I do not have.

A horse would be too noticeable. And while I would never pass for a peasant anyway, travelling on horseback and alone would be like putting up a flashing sign.

Which leaves my Animagus form. An Arctic fox in the North wouldn’t be too suspicious, would it? I would just have to avoid poachers, hunters and wild animals. And it’s not like I am in a hurry anyway.

I had decided to leave during the arrival of the Royal party. With so many new faces it would be virtually impossible to track me. I hope that by the time anyone remembers of the existence of one Jon Snow, I will be long gone.

Though I took my time packing.

With my exponentially more powerful magical reserves I no longer need a wand. But then again, I didn’t use it in past life either as in a battle magic focused Durmstrang, students prefer the use of a staff. Wands were actually very _last-century_ and not very popular outside of Britain and its colonies. As such, Asian wizards prefer fans and swords. African? Musical instruments such as drums are widespread among the tribes. Unless they practice Voodoo of course, those prefer dolls and rituals. Then there are those that cultures that use jewelry and crystals of all kinds. And lets not forget all those weirdos that manage to do magic with their hair as a focus…

On one hand, a staff is heavy, bulky and very obvious to muggles, while on the other unlike a wand it is also very difficult to break, is resistant to a disarming spell due to its weight and can be used as a short-range lethal weapon if the caster depletes their magical core. But perhaps I will stick with a ring this time. Or a pendant…

But although I no longer needed a wand, my power has changed. Many spells refuse to work properly. Especially verbal ones. But that may just be that Latin was never actually a magical language in this world. But intent based spells? They worked perfectly fine. Such as in a disillusionment spell the drive is actually the caster’s desire to become invisible and in a Point Me charm it is the wish to find something so they actually worked. But not combat spells. And while I can now form shields with some directed thought, shouting a Protego doesn’t actually do anything. Strangely enough I found a talent as an elemental in this life in both fire and ice which is another thing I have to thank my mixed parentage for.

But I would never regret my circumstances. Because _what if_ situations? What if my parents in this life weren’t complete morons? What if Rhaegar won? Would I have been acknowledged or been the dirty little secret of his youth? What if Lyanna survived my birth? Would she have cared for me? Resented me for her poor life choices? Married Robert? Become a queen? I prefer to ignore those questions because the only ‘good’ outcome comes from my acknowledgement by Rhaegar. But a mage for a Prince? Blasphemous. Unacceptable. Impossible.

And I would not give my magic for the world. And especially for a relatively comfortable life in a golden cage for the amusement of filthy muggles.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The forest was dark. It always had been. This was uncharted territory that had never been seen by man.

Everything was still.

Quiet.

It seemed that nothing would disturb the eerie silence.

Until now that is. Because thru the thick under-bush crawled a pale form. It was a fox. An Arctic fox. But strangely enough it was one that retained its silver coat regardless of the season. It had a bushy tail, elegant legs, thick fur, long whiskers and intelligent grey eyes.

It would have been the epitome of foxy perfection had it not possessed the grace of a pregnant hippopotamus.

And that ruined its picture-perfect image.

It was difficult to imagine a clumsier animal. It was as if it momentarily forgot how to walk. It seemed to realize this but instead of stopping to practice it made the disastrous decision to stand up on its hind legs. But it was a fox. So in no surprise whatsoever it fell onto its fluffy butt.

It obviously understood some mystery of the universe because in a very human gesture it brought its front paw up to its face. And had a man ever ventured into this recluse part of the ancient forest to see the animal’s actions, they would have sworn that they had seen the first and only fox on Planetos to ever face-palm. But had they shared their story with anyone else they would have become laughing-stock that should know better than to wander dark Northern forests while remaining in their cups.

The fox seemed resigned. As if it was giving up on a previously thought-out decision. It seemed to shiver for a moment and then in its place was a beautiful silver-haired teen.

That teen, once known as Draco Malfoy breathed out a sigh of relief. He was extremely glad that no one had been around to witness _that_ embarrassment. How he never wondered how animagi learn to mannerisms of their inner animal he would never know. It was foolish to assume that all the animal’s habits just come naturally because even birds have to learn how to fly. But he knows better now.

Either way, unless he wants to walk back to civilization on his own two feet he must get better. And he will. Eventually.

At least he is a fox. That is somewhat familiar territory. How grateful he is for his own foresight (more like love of fluff and goofy fur-balls) that he chose the fox form rather than the snake when he had the chance.

At the time he lived in snowy Durmstrang and planned to live in overcast and freezing Britain. Spending so much time to become an animagus just to gain the ability to immediately hibernate upon transformation would have been a foolish thing to do. But Draco does admit to himself that he never would have thought of that himself. Had _papa_ not went into a rant on pretty-but-useless animagus forms. Which makes sense. After all, who wants to transform into an albino peacock? Subtle that form is not.

Lucius’s animagus form being the secret reason for their flock of albino peacocks back at home. None of the speculators had ever come close to guessing it correctly. But then again, hiding a needle in a haystack of his own making was just the kind of genius his _papa_ was renowned for.

But memories of a faded past should not be the focus now. While he will never forget Lucius, will always love him in his own way, now is not the time to focus on such things. Especially when he has almost made it out of the unwelcoming North.

If only leaving was as simple as that.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t just the freezing cold that seeped into his bones even during the day, being the first sign of the famed ‘Winter is Coming’.

Or the poachers that a beautiful white fox had to avoid at all costs.

Or the number of bandits in the forests and on the roads that demonstrate the exact capabilities and ‘honor’ of Lord Stark and his banner men. Considering that many of said bandits remain in the service of their lords, paying them ‘tax’ for turning a blind eye to their actions, honor in the North was comparable to the South.

Non-existent.

It was a terrifying thought that in another life, honor could have been something Jon Snow would have believed in. That he could have not understood the concept of propaganda. That he could have thought that the only honor a bastard could obtain in this life is in the Night Watch. A gathering of outcasts, rapists and thieves.

No thanks.

Such an ‘ _honor’_ is entirely beyond him.

But some didn’t think so.

And the creepy Raven seemed to be one of them.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

On the wave of euphoria of actually being alive, of keeping his magic, Draco didn’t notice many things.

At least for a while.

But there was a point when even the most elated person couldn’t avoid facts.

He was a Stark.

And a Targaryen.

It was a fact.

A constant.

Reality.

Nothing could ever change that.

His questionable legitimacy was beside the point.

Blood is thicker than water after all. And just because Rhaegar Targaryen may have given a naïve Lyanna Stark his cloak without following any proper ceremonial procedures required of royalty, that doesn’t make Draco any less of a Targaryen.

It is actually amusing how that foolish Price expected a daughter. _Visenya_ , as his mother had called him before she realised she had birthed a boy.

Rhaegar didn’t even consider statistics.

Yes, the Starks are virile. But considering the facts? Those that rarely lie? Having one girl being born for every three to four boys is completely normal in a generation of Starks.

Had Rhaegar wanted a daughter so badly, he would have been better off with a Mormont.

But no…

He couldn’t do that.

An ordinary lady, that isn’t betrothed or the daughter of a Lord Paramount is so beneath someone of his station.

Draco has a sneaking suspicion that had his father actually lived, he would have ended up in the exact same position. As a bastard. Because not only would his acknowledgment be an insult to all of Dorne, he was also not the daughter Rhaegar sought.

Legitimised, he would have been a male heir with a claim to the throne.

And that was the last thing anyone wanted.

Except for maybe the young-and-stupid Lyanna Stark.

But for all the troubles he has faced because of his birth, he will not swap his circumstances. Ever.

Because being a child of two rare magical lines in a land of pathetic muggles? It was basically a chance of one in a million.

He doesn’t even want to imagine how he could have had to wake his magic in the body of a muggle. One that not only lacks a magical core, but would deteriorate during the use of any abilities.

Manipulating the body of a near-squib to withstand magic use was difficult enough.

Having to ration and avoid using his abilities out of necessity would have been a never-ending nightmare.

But finally getting his magic back, getting it to work made him feel all-powerful. And he almost payed dearly for his arrogance.

Why had he assumed that just because ‘ _all magic is gone from Westeros_ ’ according to the Septons, that that statement contains any truth? Because what is he, if not an exception?

So when he began seeing too many crows around him after he turned seven, he didn’t think too much into it. Because why should he care about the mannerisms of some birds. It’s not like Westeros is like his past world where any animal could potentially be an animagus.

He was lucky he enjoyed old Nan’s tales. Being mostly raised by Elves in his previous life, he didn’t get many of those.

But he was used to wizarding tales having a grain of truth to them. Or more than a grain. So when the old woman spun tales of wargs and greenseers and skinchangers and bloodmages and elementals, he listened. And when she told him of the ‘Bloodraven’ Brynden Rivers, the bastard Targaryen who got sent to the Wall and went ‘missing’, Draco remembered.

And so the next time he saw the strange crows, he was ready.

Bloodraven was not.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Bloodraven was confused.

It was a new feeling or him.

It wasn’t just that some of his plans have taken minds of their own, to the point where he cannot predict what will happen next. But it wasn’t just that. Because that had definitely happened before.

No.

It was something else.

He didn’t understand where he made his first mistake, but it all went downhill from there. Maybe it was loving Shiera. Or listening to her poison-filled whispers.

But he was young back then.

Arrogant.

Stupid.

He naively thought that ‘love conquers all’. Wholeheartedly believed in that foolishness spouted by poets to compromise young, impressionable minds. That if he reached a high enough, if he became someone important enough, that maybe his beloved would finally marry him.

But he was wrong.

He can see it now.

If only he understood that sooner. If only…

But he only admitted the truth when it was already too late. Too late for change. Too late for him.

And now, as a crippled old man, the best he can do is scheme. Like the Spider. Only he is the Raven. And that comparison disgusts him.

Maybe he should have supported Daemon. It was an opportunity. An opportunity he foolishly missed in his arrogance. Or maybe he should have left. To Essos or even Sothoros. What are slavers and cannibals in comparison to a Dragon?

But a Dragon was the one thing that he wasn’t and would never be.

He may have the hair, he may have even had the looks a very long time ago, but regardless of what he was like on the surface, he would never be a true dragon on the inside. He had too much Blackwood in him for that.

A greenseer instead of a dreamer.

A warg instead of a dragon rider.

He could never measure up.

But he wouldn’t exchange his abilities for anything. And maybe that was why he had lost the Game. Because where an ordinary man is forced to rely on other men, he trusted only his crows. And they? Oh, crows are capable of a great many things, but political and physical power is not one of them.

And that was how he ended up in the Night Watch.

At first he was devastated. Because a life among criminals? Criminals that held no love for Targaryens, even bastard ones? A disaster in the making.

He didn’t know how he survived the first years. Of constantly fighting to stay alive with not just the wildings but with his so-called ‘brothers’. Of having to eat the fallen just to survive because there were no supplies left _at all_.

Even the ascent to the Commander position didn’t alleviate the gravity of his situation.

He could never understand those romantic little boys that entered this nightmare willingly.

But he couldn’t leave. When he gained the opportunity he lost the ability. It was so ironic. Because a vow sworn by a mage?

Unbreakable.

And binding.

And so he was as much a prisoner of the Wall and the lands that lay beyond as the rest of the ‘Black Brothers’ and the wildings. As long as the Wall remains standing, as long as the true purpose of the Watch remains, his hands are tied.

So when approached by the Children of the Forest, those that gave him hope that the nightmare he was forced into can be ended, he foolishly said yes.

And that was a mistake.

One that he would live to regret.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Brynden Rivers held no emotional attachment to most Targaryens.

They weren’t his family.

Not any longer.

Maybe they never had been.

So when he witnessed the sunset of the Dragon rule he thought little of it. Of course he would miss those beautiful Valyrian looks, the pearl-haired maidens that reminded him of Shiera. But maybe it was for the best.

Because the Dragon madness?

The one so easily seen in their later years?

It was a disease that tormented the realm. With the Targaryens gone, perhaps Westeros will be the better for it ( _You wish_ ).

Of course he kept watch on the Game.

On the Mad King.

On the downtrodden Queen.

On the foolish Prince that was just as mad as his father in his own way.

This might be hypocritical coming from a greenseer, but what kind of man believes in a prophesy? Especially one that was given by someone else? Not a Targaryen? Not a family member? Not yourself?

Is it even true or is it just a hoax?

Can it even be acted upon or will the events unfold regardless?

What kinds of consequences does it have?

No one thought on it. No one. No one at all.

But the consequences?

The price?

_The extinction of house Targaryen._

Would the violet-eyed dragons have still put merit in such a prophesy had they known the outcome?

Bloodraven has his doubts.

But they will remain unsaid and unheard.

For all his observations, it wasn’t the Silver Prince that held his attention. Or his obviously mad younger brother. Nor his unborn babe of a sister.

No.

It was Rhaegar’s children that held his outmost focus.

Elia Martell was a soft beauty. A delicate flower miraculously raised among the vipers. She would have been better off as a viper. Perhaps then she would have lived.

She was too downtrodden to slip her goodfather poison, too soft to act when her husband strayed, too naïve to take measures to protect her children.

And so the Mad King reigned and terrorized. Rhaegar wedded and bedded his Northern paramour. And her children lay dead at an Usurper’s feet.

After the deaths of most of the Royal family, only two boys of house Targaryen were left alive. One through folly, another through trickery.

But young Viserys was already beginning to show signs of madness.

He couldn’t be the Promised Prince.

But ‘Jon Snow’?

 _That_ ‘Prince’ was a perfect candidate.

If only said candidate agreed to his point of view. But he didn’t. He not only reached and gutted his mind through one of Brynden’s crows, but spent considerable efforts to avoid any contact!

To think that some young brat is not only a more powerful sorcerer than him but cares not about using such a gift for something meaningful!

But ‘Jon’ was strange.

He didn’t care for the insults about his heritage.

He could care less about authority of the Lords.

He didn’t show any interest in his origins.

Unlike most bastards, he didn’t try to unearth his past. It was as if he already knew. And he probably did.

Bloodraven had already begun to make plans. Of mentoring the cute but annoying brat. Of converting him to his point of view. Of defeating the Others. Of bringing down the Wall. Of terminating the Night Watch and thus rendering his contract null and void. Of gaining the throne for his new Prince. Of wining the new stage of the Game. Of finding a new body for himself. Perhaps even among the little Stark brats, it’s not like ‘Jon’ cares about any of them. Of becoming the Hand of the King again. Of returning to his position of the Master of Whisperers. Of liberating that upstart Blackfyre eunuch of every position... post-mortem of course… 

But just as he was planning another attempt to approach, the selfish brat ran away.

Oh well...

It was time to make new plans.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

A silver fox shot through the underbrush like the hounds of hell were upon its bushy tail. And anyone who could have seen the dark shape of its pursuer would have believed in at least an enraged Tengu chasing a cheeky Kitsune that ate both the canary and licked up all the cream.

The dark shape of a Raven grew closer, lower…

But as it swooped down to lift the pesky creature into his impressive claws, the silver flash moved. And so where the massive black bird was just moments ago, the fox’s jaws slammed shut. But they were empty.

The bird knew better than to be caught unawares.

Draco was angry.

Furious.

His only consolidation is that the subject of his ire is at least not some pathetic muggle.

And not some random magic user either…

As in that case he would have just torn their mind apart searching for new abilities and techniques of this world, leaving them a drooling, mindless idiot.

But that wasn’t an option.

Because Draco was many things, but a kin-slayer was not one of them. He knew better than that. He wasn’t Voldemort to spite the Great Laws of Magic in such a way. (And look where that got _him_ …)

Of course there were exceptions. Loopholes so to speak.

Two relatives could duel to their hearts’ content, even to their deaths in challenge for a ‘winner takes it all’ and ‘may the strongest survive, may the weak perish’. But that was only an option to take when magically of age.

And that age?

The first magical age of maturity? That was eleven. The age when a child steps onto the path to become a man. When they gain the ability to answer and throw challenges, but not to their deaths. The age when they lose the defense of their mother’s skirt and their father’s sword. The age when a magical child could safely live away from their parents without strain on their magical core. The age that Hogwarts’ (and other magical schools’) acceptance letters are sent out.

The second age of magical maturity? That is fifteen. The year of OWLs. The year the connection between a teenager’s magical core and their parents’ is severed. And at fifteen, one’s magical core can take the strain of another’s. Of their own child’s. Fifteen is the year most magical engagements were finalized in the wizarding world. And some times even marriages.

And the third age? Seventeen? The age when wizards completed their NEWTs. The age when a young mage develops their affinities. The age when their power levels are finalized if they do not put any extra effort into their magical development. The age an Heir can become a Lord. Legally at least. Orphans gained that capability much earlier. And most importantly? They could challenge to duels of magic. And they could die.

But if a magical adult targeted a _magical_ child? A child of their own blood?

That was the exact kind of thing Magic could never stand for.

If the Dark Lord wanted to kill Harry Potter so badly, he just had to wait until he reached his final Magical Maturity and issue a challenge as to an equal. But he was Lord Voldemort. Even Great Laws were beneath him…

 _They weren’t_.

He found that little fact out the hard way.

And so did Harry Potter.

The same Harry Potter that knew so little of Magic and his new world that he remained ignorant to the true powers that protected him until his very end. The idiot believed that he will ‘miraculously’ survive a duel with the Dark Lord. Never realizing that his ‘luck’ was officially over as soon as he reached seventeen. And if an Expelliarmus against an Avada was the peak of his skills? Well… Too bad. He should have actually prepared during all that extra time he had while under protection. And if not? If he was incapable? Then he should have found the deepest bolt-hole and stayed there.

So like a smart Slytherin he was, Draco learned from the mistakes of others.

He had absolutely no desire to make his own


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The situation was an awkward one.

On one hand Bloodraven was a certified monster. On the other? He was a blood relation that meant no harm to _him_. Although Draco’s personal preference to avoid him was not something the man seemed to accept.

Of course he could continue to ignore his insistent ‘uncle’ and pretend to be deaf, blind and stupid by continuing his journey to Essos all the while ‘not noticing’ the ever-increasing flock of crows that seemed to be trying and failing to remain inconspicuous. Honestly, having a personal murder of feathery stalkers was alike wearing a sign over his head ‘something fishy this way comes’.

His ‘uncle’ certainly knew how to get his point across.

Brynden Rivers might not have enough power to force the issue, but what he did have was more than enough to get his point across, making an unforgettable nuisance of himself in the process.

Honestly, at this point Draco was pretty much resigned to actually listening to what the man had to say. Otherwise, he had a feeling that a feathery escort would become an obvious constant in his life. And the associated rumors were the last thing he needed if his desire to stay under the radar for as long as possible was to be fulfilled.

After another failed attempt made by the Raven to dive-bomb the fox, the other animal came to a halt. The Raven, not prepared for such a change in course, practically face-planted into the spot where the fox should have been in the next moment. But it wasn’t. It had stopped just short of that position.

The Raven seemed shocked to be seen in such an undignified state. Its expressions were definitely not you see on the face of an animal. Ever. 

And that was a great tell that the bird was far from normal.

But the bird wasn’t in its ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ state for long. It gathered itself up faster than should have been possible.

And now two very different animals, one with fur of the brightest snow and the other with feathers of the darkest night took their time to inspect each other. It seemed as if the two animals could remain in such a position for eternity. Two contrasts that should have never met. But they did. And something changed.

In that moment the little fox moved.

And had anyone had a camera to capture the Raven’s appearance, they would have never believed the entire extent of disbelief and shock identifiable on the face of a _seemingly_ ordinary bird. But it was no wonder. Because had that mysterious bystander with a camera actually been there they would have been in no space to judge. Because what kind of an expression a man wears when they see an ordinary animal turn human before their very eyes? Especially one as unnaturally beautiful as that?

They would have likely believe they were in the presence of an otherworldly creature or the divine.

But Bloodraven had long-since stopped believing in gods.

Oh, he believed in their _existence_. He would have been a hypocrite not to. But actually _believing_ in them? The only power and creature Brynden Rivers believed in was himself. Because awaiting for divine intervention to make things _better_? _Why_? When he was capable of enough miracles to spoil himself to his heart’s content. When a ‘divine’ miracle would require some form of payment. Payment postponed to a later date. Payment, he would most likely never freely give.

So Bloodraven never called upon miracles. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ was a principle he always stood by. Because nothing in this life is _ever_ free. And if the price of momentary satisfaction is unstated? That leaves the ‘benefactor’ to ask for satisfaction at a later date. And what if the final price is his soul? Or worse?

No thanks.

Bloodraven can live without miracles.

When they are not those of his own making, that is.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Bloodraven admired.

How long has it been that he has been stuck in the literal middle of butt-fuck nowhere?

How long since he had last seen anything (or anyone) he could at least try to describe as _remotely pretty_? (How far have the mighty fallen…and their standards…)

Where North of the Wall, the wildlings bathed on _very_ special occasions if _at all_. And so their most ‘beautiful’ men and women were perhaps in the same range as beggars of Flee Bottom. And that was not taking the widespread traces of Giant’s blood in their veins. A woman with a square jaw, muscly arms and twice his height that seems to be well on her way to growing a beard? Ew. No thanks.

Although the Night Brothers’ beauty standards tended to fall _very_ quickly. And so captured wildlings, no matter how ugly, were the rage. If not, then the subjects of their ‘affections’ usually ended up being fellow ‘brothers’ that were a little more attractive than _not at all_. He would know. He was almost the subject of such ‘affections’ when he was newly inducted. But he wasn’t a sorcerer for nothing.

And if the group of idiots made ‘offers’ to the ugliest and meanest member of the Night Watch because of a well-placed glamour? Well… it’s not like they could have proved anything. But after _that_? Everyone ‘suddenly’ _remembered_ that Targaryens were _rumored_ to be sorcerers. So from then on, they knew better than to ‘proposition’ _him_.

Because no one wanted to be cursed impotent. No one at all…

But now, because of _reasons_ , he could not get enough of the vision in front of him. The slim and obviously Valyrian figure could have belonged in the most extravagant court of his youth. The beauty before him overshadowed even the Seastar in her prime. He would know, being one of the few people that could judge. It was something he would have thought impossible. Knew to be impossible. Shiera was an epitome of beauty and perfection. But the being in front of him now brought her to shame.

Such an exquisite creature belonged in the arms of Emperors with the world at their feet.

It mattered not that the being was obviously male.

But Brynden felt something…

It wasn’t _wrong_ exactly.

It was right.

But it _shouldn’t_ be right.

It wasn’t that the ethereal being had just been a fox before transforming into a pale-faced, moon-haired, grey-eyed boy. No, he did hear of skinchangers before. It took much more than being his first time actually _seeing one_ _in the flesh_ to shock the Bloodraven.

No. That wasn’t it.

It wasn’t the subtly inhuman beauty either. (He had never seen slitted pupils on a ‘human’ before). For someone who grew up at court and to see all the great beauties of both Westeros and Essos that tried their luck with ‘the Unworthy’ Aegon, an ethereal visage was just his piece of cake that makes him think back to his youth and the success of schemes accomplished in the bedroom by such beauties.

Not that he would _ever_ suggest something that vulgar to the being before him. He is not _Baelish_. Because _mortal_ ladies of the court are one thing, but a creature so obviously _not_ , is completely another.

No that also wasn’t what made his inner instincts rise up in alert.

It was that the majestic sight before him was not Jon Snow. Could never be Jon Snow.

But it should be.

Because when the Bloodraven followed the ‘missing’ boy’s magical trail, it couldn’t have led him to anyone else.

Though jumping to premature conclusions about young Jon’s warging abilities and trying to get an animal that ‘smelt’ like him to lead him back to its master is something he would avoid doing in the future.

But then again, maybe not.

Because he has a feeling that if he hadn’t forced the issue, the secret of ‘Jon Snow’ would have remained just that. A secret. And there were few things the Bloodraven hated more than secrets. If they weren’t his own that is.

But when the creature that was and wasn’t Jon Snow opened his mouth, Brynden could feel the first signs of a headache coming on. Because there was only so much he could handle not understanding in one day.

Being asked to shift back?

Huh?

_How?_

Oh…

Oh!...

Perhaps no one has explained to the poor thing that warging doesn’t work that way?

Well someone has to…

So it might as well be him.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Draco was confused.

He would have thought that now that he had shifted back, the ‘raven’ would also afford him with the same courtesy. But the said ‘bird’ just looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

More so, the animal seemed dumbstruck for some reason. It was as if it had learnt some secret of the universe it didn’t know before. But it couldn’t have. Other than his animagus form which considering the faithful pursuit he was subjected to all the way from Winterfell, the ‘raven’ definitely new about.

But Draco didn’t have the chance to think back to what he had unwillingly revealed. Because in the next moment he was forcefully dragged into the _bird’s_ mind. Only to seemingly transport elsewhere.

He was curious for a moment as he had never experienced this kind of magical technique before. But only for a moment. That is until he realized _what_ he was actually seeing. Because in the next moment he felt the barely resistible urge to gag.

And who _wouldn’t_?

Because seeing a tree actually growing thru a human being is not just _disturbing_. It is abominable. It is monstrous. It is disgusting.

It wasn’t just that the wounds were open and raw. No. that wasn’t it. Or that the subject of what could only be a variation of torture had to be in constant, unimaginable pain. No.

It was what Draco could see _as a wizard_ that disturbed him the most.

Because the man before him was a sorcerer. A powerful one at that. But one that could only utilize a tiny fraction of their own power. The rest? Well… a small portion was being used for just keeping the poor man alive. And the remainder? Oh, that was what repulsed Draco so badly. Because the remainder was leaving the man through the impaling roots and feeding some kind of parasites on the other end.

Before him was an abomination upon magic. A powerful mage should never be mistreated in such a way. As a power source for some kind of creatures.

And so there was only one thing Draco could do in this situation.

Those _things_ had to go.

And _quickly_.

So when the man spoke of Prophesy, of the Wall, of the Night Watch, of the Others, of the Night King and of Draco’s (or _Jon’s_ ) destiny, Draco wasn’t listening. Well, _he was_ , but the tale held little of his attention. Because he knew.

How to stop the upcoming catastrophe.

How to help the man before him.

And most importantly, who was _truly_ responsible.

But he didn’t have to be there for any of it. Because the sorcerer in front of him? Even severely handicapped the man is more than enough. Draco’s plans can remain unchanged.

He just has to set the Bloodraven on the right path. That is all.

And if for that he has to reveal _the existence_ of some of his secrets? It wasn’t a too steep price to pay for a way out of the entire mess this early in the next round of the Game.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

“So you are basically implying that because of some weird prophesy, the truthfulness of which, you _yourself_ seem to have trouble believing in, I have to remain in the North as I can potentially be that ‘Prince that was Promised’? Did I understand that correctly?” The little blond seemed to be getting more annoyed with every spoken word.

“Yes?...” Brynden honestly didn’t know how to answer that question that honestly seemed more alike a statement. Especially as the longer he stayed here, away from the world as a silent sentinel, the less he could believe in the prophesized drivel. And now he _had to_ (according to some) convince the potential subject of said prophesy that the entire thing isn’t just some ancient, rhymed bullshit.

“You are self-taught, aren’t you?” the creature that hid behind the visage of ‘Jon Snow’ asked.

“Yes?...” Bloodraven couldn’t understand where this conversation was going. On one hand, the topic of discussion had taken a path of its own, on the other? He _didn’t_ have any magical education. That much _was_ true. All his skills were for the most part self-taught, with a small fraction passed on from the Children. Maybe he will finally find out something useful out for a change. Because hearing ‘sorcery is sin’ and ‘magic does not exist in Westeros’ every time he got curious was grating on his nerves.

“You must understand that there is a fundamental difference between a Prophesy and a Dream. Where Dreams are the tools of Fate, Prophesy is the executor of Destiny. The events seen in Dreams _have to_ come about. They are _Fated_ to occur. The only thing a ‘Dreamer’ can do is warn those concerned about what is to come. That is it. Whether the subjects chose to act on obtained advice or laugh it off as ridiculous nonsense is their choice and their choice _only_. Humans have free will. That is not just a random motivational line. It is the truth.

Do you _really_ think Daenerys the Dreamer only spoke to her own house? Really? The Eruption of the Fourteen was an _unavoidable catastrophe_. Millions died. She wasn’t a stoned-hearted monster to condemn her own race. But the actions of the Valyrians? The fact that they chose to ignore all the warnings they were given? Laugh into her face and say that such a thing would never happen as it is _impossible_? It was their own decision to choose their arrogance over common sense.

Dreams are useful.

But a Prophesy?

 _That_ is something else entirely.

Have you ever heard the saying that ‘ _a man shapes his own Destiny’_?

It is ironically true as something might be _destined_ to occur, but will never actually come to be. As a man might be _destined_ to become a Lord but becomes a pirate instead. It is only a matter of Fate flipping a coin, so to speak.

So how does a Prophesy actually come about? How does one distinguish one from a poem or random drunken nonsense?

The funny thing is, they _don’t_.

Any insane drivel can become a prophesy if a large enough group believe in it. Sometimes a single individual is more than enough especially when they are magically powerful.

And many of them remain unfulfilled or are fulfilled in such a way that is either only obvious after the fact or never make a large enough ripple for any note to be made of the event.

But some Prophesies are identified as Great Prophesies. These are a different story altogether. Where most prophesies remain unrealized and lie forgotten in time, these are another matter as they are driven towards fulfillment by an outside force. This is usually accounted to the power-play between gods who manipulate the prophesy and events in such a way that would gain them more followers. These Prophesies are usually easily distinguished from the rest by a clearly identifying a ‘Dark Power’ as the villain as well as the circumstances of finding or even _birthing_ a Hero to defeat the threat.

And knowing all this? Do you really think I would _willingly_ step into the pile of shit that is _obviously_ a Great Prophesy? Especially when a ‘Hero’s’ role is very rigidly controlled and the end of the story very rarely ends with a ‘and he lived happily ever after’?”


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Brynden was dumbfounded. He had honestly thought he had seen and heard it all. That after all the shocking discoveries he had recently made, there couldn’t _possibly_ be any more to it. _But he was wrong_. But at least now he can say with at least a certain degree of certainty that the being before him wasn’t Jon Snow. And had likely never been Jon Snow.

But considering how he himself was considering switching bodies, he shouldn’t be surprised at seeing someone’s else’s success. Someone who is clearly much more powerful and learnt than him. Someone, who at first opportunity had obviously reverted to their natural and true appearance. An appearance so obviously Valyrian with distinct traces of pure ‘dragonblood’ that they couldn’t be anyone other than a Valyrian sorcerer from the ancient times.

Because ‘Jon’ couldn’t possibly be a Targaryen.

Yes, the ‘boy’ before him bore _some_ similarities to the Mad Dragons of Westeros. But that was all they were. _Similarities_. Considering every subsequent Targaryen looked to be a splitting image of all their relatives due to so many sibling marriages, ‘Jon’ was as similar to the Targaryens as any high-born Valyrian from Myr was. Similar enough, but easily justified by _very_ distant common ancestors. And while one could try to explain away the inconsistencies by the introduction of the Stark blood, it was obviously not the case as the only remotely ‘Stark’ thing about him, were his stormy grey eyes. The rest? The large build? The tousled appearance? The dark hair and visible scruff? The faces seemingly cut from stone? None of that was present.

If anyone saw the new and improved ‘Jon’, they not only wouldn’t recognize him, no. They wouldn’t even be able to place him as being related to the Starks or _any_ Westerosi house _at all_ for that matter.

And that was just incredible.

Because while Brynden himself could place and identify glamours, he was incapable of anything on that scale. The ‘boy’ had not only held his disguise up for years. No. He had even made it _real_. Solid enough as to bruise in the practice yard. Real enough to fool _him_.

If only Bloodraven could leave…

He would follow the ‘boy’ to the ends of Planetos and nag him about his knowledge.

And he still can.

He just had to make hypothetical plans into reality, that’s all.

But he will also ask for advice.

Because regardless of how he grew to loathe Westeros and its inhabitants over the years, many didn’t deserve the wrath of the Others on their heads.

Hopefully he wouldn’t be rebutted.

Actually…

He is now honestly surprised he wasn’t. (Well… if one ignores the ‘fox’s’ attempts to run away from and to take a bite out of the offending raven).

But then again, he can feel some kind of bond with the ‘boy’, meaning that regardless of his looks, he definitely had Targaryen blood in his veins. And hopefully he wasn’t above some advice to his favorite and only uncle (if you ignore Viserys Targaryen as well as Eddard and Benjen Stark, but who even counts two barbarians and a mad-man anyway?).


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Draco couldn’t understand at what point the situation had escalated to _this_.

He had naively thought that giving the man some unfortunate news he would be unhappy to hear would curb the questions and curiosity. That they would hold one uncomfortable conversation and go their separate ways, forgetting their brief encounter like a fleeting nightmare.

But that wasn’t the case.

Bloodraven, or Brynden, as he preferred to be called was a man with nerves of steel.

Upon hearing the unpleasant news he only let out a long string of words that were unfit to be anywhere near the presence of ladies. More so, any member of the fairer sex in all actuality. But he didn’t blame Draco as the messenger or dwell on what-ifs and self-pity. No. This was a man of action. And if he found out he was lied to and exploited? Well…

The poor idiots should have really invested in a life insurance plan (Disregarding the fact that on Planetos, such a concept didn’t even exist).

Draco himself as a self-respecting pureblood, was a firm supporter of the opinion that defective House-Elves should be executed. And so what that these creatures call themselves ‘Children of the Forest’? He can call himself ‘Emperor of the Universe’ as much as he likes, that wouldn’t make it true.

To him, creatures that looked like House-Elves and fed on magic like House-Elves, _were_ House-Elves.

And House-Elves that not only hadn’t pledged their service to a wizarding family but _dared_ to not just form a parasitic bond to their _better_ and drain their magic, but had the _audacity_ to plan and _try_ to manipulate _Draco’s_ life? Such defective servants had to go.

Permanently.

And Brynden Rivers agreed.

Wholeheartedly.

At least the entire matter is solved easily enough.

The Bloodraven isn’t the first sorcerer to suffer the disobedience of their slaves after all.

But few House-Elves in the wizarding world were idiotic enough to try to pull that kind of trick. Especially knowing the consequences.

Because with a simple ritual that even a child could complete, a wizard could annihilate the Elves tied to themselves. Because every single bond, no matter how weak, is double-sided. That was actually one of the reasons why House-Elves were usually tied to _wizarding families_ , not individuals. Such an approach not only removed the necessity of re-bonding slaves after the death of the previous master but was a fail-safe against blood-traitors that might want to cripple their ‘dark’ family by releasing their rightful servants as the only one capable of such a feat is the family Head.

That was actually one of the reasons why the Weasleys earned such a ‘delightful’ title for the entire family. Because not only was one of the Heads a kin-slayer that slaughtered his own elder brothers that stood to inherit ahead of him in their sleep, thus breaking one of the Great Laws and ‘earning’ a permanent handicap in magical power for both himself and his descendants by such a ‘honorable’ deed. No, that wasn’t enough. So when the family Elves refused to service the newly-dubbed blood-traitor due to his minuscule power-levels, the idiot didn’t find anything better to do than to let them go. Thinking that the creatures will be so grateful for their freedom, they would beg for him to take them back.

They didn’t.

So obviously, he was wrong.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Draco liked Dorne.

And Dorne liked him back.

At least as long as he wore a glamour of an inconspicuous red-read and didn’t mention his relation to Rhaegar Targaryen.

But if he did?

Well…

His life would have definitely been very short and _very_ painful.

Because not only had the famed ‘Silver Prince’ embarrassed Dorne’s beloved princess, not just very publically and scandalously taken a mistress. No, that wasn’t enough. Not for Rhaegar. He then had the audacity to ‘marry’ his Northern whore and endanger his legitimate son’s birthright. But even _that_ was insufficient for the Crowned Prince. So when the Targaryens fell, not a single person in Dorne shed a single tear for them. Because the Dragons got what they deserved. For the humiliation brought to Elia. For the deaths of so many Dornish men in that foolish rebellion brought about by the actions of a lustful idiot.

But what the entire Kingdom _did_ cry about? About their beloved Princess that died a death no woman should ever have to experience. About, although officially belonging to another house, but still their little Prince and Princess. About Aegon and Rhaenys. The little Dornish dragons that had never got to be.

And so every single man and woman of Dorne that currently smiles and greets him with flirty pick-up lines would tear him apart with their bare hands should it come out that not only has Dorne lost the last round of the Game and been publicly humiliated, but the union that brought them so much hardship bore fruit. And the _product_ feels comfortable enough to dare feel at home in Dornish territory. Just like his father. Who had even had the audacity to marry his Northern bitch in his own wife’s home Kingdom.

If not for that (and many other reasons) Draco may have been inclined to stay in Dorne. Because out of all the Seven Kingdoms it is the only one that feels like it could become a home. But such delusions were dangerous.

He isn’t suicidal. He has no desire to experience the ‘love’ for Rhaegar and Lyanna held by the Dornish. No thanks.

Essos, adventure and his own baby dragon await.

Although he did take his time to tour all the Kingdoms of Westeros. Except the Iron Islands (for obvious reasons) that is.

And he couldn’t say he liked any of them.

The North?

Snowy, windy, cold… and most importantly enemy territory. Unless he joined the Night Watch.

The Riverlands?

The people there reminded him so much of Catelyn Stark nee Tully that he could feel his eye twitch during his entire stay there. And truth to be told, he was never a fan of fish in the first place.

The Vale?

It was colder than even the North in his honest opinion. But then again, mountains were meant to be. And perhaps he would have even been mystified by the magical views had he been travelling by dragon-back, but he wasn’t and his first impression was ruined by almost freezing his butt off. 

The Westerlands?

Enemy territory. So No. Just No.

The Reach?

Beautiful gardens but too many Septs and coincidentally Septons for his tastes. He could almost smell the religious fanatics searching for witches to burn. No thanks.

The Stormlands?

He isn’t suicidal.

And the Crownlands honestly stink.

And finally, his destination, sunny Dorne. Lovely and wonderful, if a bit too hot. He would have even loved to live here in another life when he wasn’t the son of the Prince that metaphorically slapped Dorne across the face. But alas, some things are just not to be. But then again, the purpose of his trip to Sunspear was only a short transit before travelling to Lys.

Soon enough, he will finally reach Essos.

Soon enough, he will be free…


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Lord Stark didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t even understand when everything went wrong. He just knew that it did.

Was it his father’s southern ambitions? Or his own plans to ally himself with his best friend through the marriage of his only sister, Lyanna? Or was it when no one had considered her opinion? Or that they didn’t guard her well enough and gave her the opportunity to run away?

Or was it Elia Martell’s fault as a woman? Was she so terrible in the bedroom that her husband chose to stray? Was she barren? Or was the Prince a lustful fool that took after his father more than anyone knew?

Or was it Brandon’s fault, who like a hard-headed idiot rushed to the capitol and demanded the arrest of a Crown Prince? Was his brother really that much of an idiot? Asking the Mad King for justice? What did he even expect? A fair trial?

Or was it Robert’s? When he mistook the feeling of possession for love? When he decided to play the Game of Thrones? When he married the Lion bitch? Or when he stepped over the bodies of children?

Or was it Jon Arryn’s? After all, he was the man that raised them the way they were. And now the man is dead. Poisoned by the Lannisters apparently.

Or was it that dragon-spawn bastard’s fault? Had the boy not sported a mop of night-black hair and been a splitting image of a true Stark, Ned would have never believed him to be of his blood. Because that wretched boy? He was a dragon thru and thru. One just needed to know where to look. Although everyone who had never seen a dragon mistook him for a wolf. But that was not the case. Where all Starks lived by the principle ‘The pack survives and the lone wolf dies’, Jon Snow didn’t need the Pack.

At all.

And at first Ned was fooled just like everybody else. But not for long. What had started out as games with Robb and a similar age group of boys devolved into something very different. Ned could admit to himself that he was secretly glad when his wife took initiative to keep the dragon-spawn away from his heir. Perhaps the wretched bastard would finally learn his place and coincidentally some humility.

But that was not the case.

Jon Snow still walked with the grace of a Prince, ate with the skills of a court butterfly and always held his head high. And when guests compared him to Robb, the comparison was not in his son’s favor.

He didn’t behave a wolf ought to. Where a wolf pup forcefully excluded from the pack would seek reconciliation with the group, bare his neck up to the leader or perhaps issue a challenge, Jon did none of those things. He was perfectly comfortable alone.

But he wasn’t a lone wolf.

No.

Because the runt Direwolf pup given to him as a consolation prize? It was dying. And Jon Snow snapped the thing’s neck.

Ruthlessly. 

Mercilessly.

And that was not the behavior of a wolf which would have tried to nurture it until the very end.

It was that of a dragon.

A dragon that was now missing.

Just as his friend was coming to visit.

Just as they began negotiating a Royal marriage for Sansa.

Just as Jon Arryn vacated his position as hand. And although he will miss the man that fostered him, was like a father to him, he will not regret the opportunity. A Stark for a Hand. Perhaps he will finally be the one to lead the North to greatness? The Stark that will have their name immortalized in stone?

But perhaps it is for the best. There will be more questions but absolutely no chance that someone would recognize the brat as Rhaegar’s. He wouldn’t want to test the bounds of his and Robert’s friendship after all.

So good riddance.

For now.

Because as soon as the dragon-spawn is found, it will be given a long-deserved lashing and sent to the Wall.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

The journey to Lys was a _nightmare_.

It wasn’t even made bearable by the fact that Draco was one of the very few passengers that _didn’t_ get sea-sick. But then again, none of these poor sods actually had his experience on the Durmstrang fleet.

And _that_?

That was a nightmare _and a half_.

While all of those their gullible Hogwarts and Beauxbatons peers couldn’t tear their eyes away from the well-built Durmstrang Champion and his compatriots, those unlucky enough to get on Karkaroff’s bad side or the social outcasts that drew the short straw for bunking arrangements, were confined aboard as to not embarrass the ‘proper’ students by their greenish pallor.

So yes, Draco didn’t get sea-sick. Or more like it, he _couldn’t_ get sea-sick.

And if all those jealous merchants that enviously glared at him in between puking their guts out overboard knew _why exactly_ Draco wasn’t there with the rest of them, they wouldn’t secretly wish to be in his shoes any longer. Because Draco? Draco would have loved to swap with anyone, _anyone at all_ back in the day. What kind of sadist even makes sailing those wooden death-traps compulsory for all the male students anyway? Draco would take the female-compulsory knitting classes over _that_ any day if anyone had bothered to ask his honest opinion ( _which they didn’t_ ).

At least they were lucky enough not to encounter pirates.

That was something he could live without _thank you very much_ …

And while most of them just ‘confiscate’ all valuables and cargo, releasing the crews and passengers alive (as mindless slaughter either provoked eventual retaliation or the lack of marine travelers to further exploit), getting sold into slavery was a very real possibility. And although he did shift his features into something unrecognizable and in his honest opinion, ugly, his perception of beauty seemed to be rather skewed. But then again, growing up around the exquisite Lucius Malfoy whose subtle Veela allure played a _very minor_ part in the final impression he made on others, would do that to anyone.

So now Draco Malfoy who would hopefully never have to use the tasteless name ‘Jon Snow’ or the unoriginal and even vulgar (considering his deceased elder half-brother’s name) Aegon Targaryen, disguised as a ‘plain and ugly’ muggle (but only according to his opinion) was drawing much more attention than he would have liked. Oh well, he just has to bear with it. Once he arrives in Lys, he could hopefully forego his disguise. Because in one of the ‘Three Sisters’ densely populated by descendants of Valyrian, renowned for their beauty, surely he will not stand out…

Oh, how wrong he was…


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Varys was scheming.

But then, he always was. Another scheme was nothing new. But unlike most of those he had lately been involved in, it was important. Vital. Crucial. Elemental.

He couldn’t fail.

Not when they were so close to success.

Not when the Blackfyres will soon once more rise up to the very top. And while they may have to permanently abandon their name for a chance at success, it would just mean that no one will be able to prove anything. Especially when ‘Aegon’ himself is kept ignorant of his true birth name. And if it pains both him and Illyrio to have to call their son and nephew by the wretched Targaryen name instead of the rightful Blackfyre, no one has to know.

But not all things were running according to plan.

And that annoyed him.

Were his ‘little birds’ really so incompetent as to lose one single boy? He didn’t think so. But somehow, they did. And now the whereabouts of the ‘real’ Aegon Targaryen, the one birthed by the wolven bitch, remain unknown. And that, _that_ he cannot, _will not_ stand for. He _will not_ have a wildcard with such potential out of his control in _his Game_.

At least getting the boy to the Wall, forced to swear vows will now be a matter of not if but when. Now that Eddard Stark has finally lined up all his support behind Robert, now that he has chosen a side, chosen to play the Game, he will not stand for such a compromising factor such as the potential rightful heir to the Iron Throne hidden in his domain. And inducting the boy into the ‘Black Brothers’? In the North it is even considered _honorable_. To bastards of course. And the odd youngest son among them.

He is still frustrated as to why his machinations hadn’t worked.

It wasn’t just that the only thing the boy inherited from the Starks was his appearance. And he was rather lucky for it. Because had he not? Had he been the spitting image of a true Targaryen? Obvious to everyone around him? Had he been a potential figurehead for another rebellion? Varys would have been the first one to snap _that_ babe’s neck. He couldn’t, no, _wouldn’t_ have a real threat for Aegon Blackfyre’s future rule. Especially when it wasn’t hypothetical.

But even though the boy looked nothing like a Targaryen, he still had a better claim to the Iron Throne than their Aegon. So he had to go. But as long as he wasn’t a political threat and living in the middle of nowhere, fathering no children, he could live. Who knows when Varys or Aegon would have need of him? So the Wall was the perfect solution. Far enough away to be out of sight, out of mind, and not entirely unobtainable should they ever have need of such a strategic resource.

But regardless of how many ‘little birds’ he placed around ‘Jon Snow’ growing up, no matter how many times they sung their tune about the _honor_ of a service at the Wall, ‘Jon Snow’ remained deaf to their songs and to his machinations.

Well, no matter.

That problem is now almost solved.

They just had to find him.

That is all.

It shouldn’t be too difficult anyway.

How far could an unprepared child run in the North anyway?

If only Varys knew… because not that day, the day after or the day after that was ‘Jon Snow’ found. And he would never be. Because ‘Jon Snow’? The Northern bastard of the _honorable_ Ned Stark whose existence many Southern Lords always remember to note in the utmost irony? He is gone. If he even existed in the first place. And Draco? He isn’t his replacement. No. He is something better.

And unlike ‘Jon Snow’, he will make sure that his life will matter more than a single pawn sacrificed at the very end of the Game just before it had its chance to reach the end of the board.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Draco was hiding.

From everyone.

Most importantly the Valyrian Nobles.

And he had good reason to.

Who knew that even among the Valyrians, he would stand out? How was he to know that his split pupils and apparently ‘supernatural beauty’ marked him as the fabled dragonborn from ancient Valyrian legends?

Dragonborn, which were said to be the first generation of dragon-riders to ever exist? Dragonborn that were said to be produced from the union of a mortal and a dragon? _(How is that even physically possible? Although if the first dragons had the ability to transform…)_

And while no one who had ever seen Lucius Malfoy in the flesh would dare label him as something as plebeian as ‘mortal’ or call Voldemort a ‘dragon’, there was a grain of truth to the ridiculous assumption. Because who really knew what the Dark Lord’s animagus form truly was? While his appearance after rebirth _did_ imply is was something reptilian, it could have been anything. From a Basilisk to a Box Turtle to a Dragon…

And considering the tales of dragonborn _birthing_ the first pureblood Valyrian houses? Taking into account the Veela blood in his veins in his last life, Draco has absolutely no desire to test _that_ ridiculous theory. Especially given the very real chance that it might be proven true.

And gaining the position of a desired prize or a priceless relic?

No thanks.

And so Draco was hiding.

Successfully.

Because who would expect the ‘ethereal dragonborn’ to look like a typical traveler from Yi Ti? No one. Thankfully.

A traveler that would leave for Volantis as soon as the panicked nobles will deign to open the gates.

And that only depended on whether or when, their desire to catch a mythical dragonborn which many consider to be a drunken hallucination, outweighs their greed. You cannot trade in isolation after all…


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Bran Stark was happy.

He often was.

He wasn’t the heir, just the spare.

Enough to warrant some attention, but not to lead to constant control. Although his mother thought differently. But luckily, his father didn’t think so.

Although there was one thing his parents did agree on when it came to his adventures. But it was his favorite game! He wouldn’t stop! He couldn’t! 

Why couldn’t they just understand?!

But they didn’t!

And so he did it anyway!

Because they will see!

They will!

He will be the best!

He will be!

And they will not ban him from climbing the towers any more!

They will be proud!

He knows they will be!

And now the King is here! But he only noticed Robb and Sansa! That is so unfair! He might not be the heir, or be pretty but at least he isn’t stupid!

But he is happy he isn’t Sansa. Because Prince Joffrey?

He scares him.

But that is mostly because of his dreams. Or nightmares.

He keeps seeing dead Wolves and mating Lions. Butchered Stags and rotten Fish…

But then there dreams he isn’t allowed to talk about. The ones about Dragons.

One Dragon killed by a Lion.

Another by a Stag.

Two hit a Mountain in the beginning of their flight.

An Old female traded for a Young.

A mad Young Dragon was took a swim in molten gold.

And the last?

The young female?

She was mad as well.

Sick.

Frothing at the mouth.

And barren.

There would be no more Dragons now.

Pure ones, that is.

Because somewhere far, a young Fox-Dragon, covered and hidden by its long, silver fur, slithered through the sands.

And somewhere near, an old Raven-Dragon lurked. Watching. Waiting.

And Bran was scared.

Because the Raven-Dragon cowered in black feathers was watching _him_.

So he tried not to think about those things.

Just as his father told him not to.

After asking about a Wolf-Dragon, that is. But Bran doesn’t understand why. Why would there be a Wolf-Dragon in the first place?

But it mattered not.

Because the Wolf-Dragon his father sought out didn’t exist.

But father thought differently.

For some reason…

But after that question, father didn’t ask about his dreams again. He said that was all they were. Dreams.

And they didn’t matter.

_And neither did Bran…_

Because from that moment, his father stopped noticing him. It was like Bran Stark wasn’t there. And it hurt…

So he climbed.

Because that was the only way to be noticed these days.

Even if it was to receive another reprimand…

But Bran Stark was always curious.

So when he heard voices in the tower, he listened.

And fell.

Down, down, _down_ …

To the ground.

When he saw his mother, he thought he would be fine. He will be alright. Alright to tell her that he was pushed.

But he wasn’t alright.

He couldn’t say a word.

And maybe in another life, Bran Stark would have lived. Had the bastard everyone shunned subconsciously lent him his energy, the power sleeping in his veins that he didn’t live to know about…

But there was no Jon Snow in Winterfell.

There never was.

So when Bran Stark closed his eyes, he saw his mother for the last time.

Because the next time they opened?

They no longer belonged to Bran Stark.

He was the Bloodraven.

And forever will be.

And he now has a beautiful Fox-Dragon to find.

Everything else is secondary.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Ned Stark made a mistake.

Somewhere.

Sometime.

And he understands that the entire thing was brought about by his own foolishness and greed. But the position of Hand held so much potential. So much promise. That he didn’t stop to _think_ …

Or he did.

But about all the wrong things.

Why did it even matter to him who had fathered the ‘heirs’? Was it even his business? Didn’t he learn from his father’s and brother’s experience about happens to those that interfere with Royal affairs?

Not at all.

Unfortunately.

And how foolish was he to think that the entire investigation is completely secret? When he had never had the need to be discreet in his life? (If one doesn’t count Jon Snow that is).

Why did he even think that no one knew?

If he arrived from the far North and immediately suspected the big ‘secret’?

It was more likely that it was a fact held closely to someone’s chest, to be released at the most opportune moment. Which was likely now. And he was just a pawn in another’s game…

And how was a child’s hair color even a sign of their paternity? If that was the case, then Arya would be the only ‘real’ Stark in Winterfell besides him. What was he even thinking?!

He can admit to himself now when the future looks bleak and his prospects are few, that he was a fool. And a self-righteous one at that. One that had absolutely no skill for the Game and probably stepped on too many toes while trying to play.

His only saving grace was Robert.

His best friend.

The one he had knowingly betrayed by raising a child of his enemy under his nose.

The one whose mere presence protected him from the vultures.

At least while he was alive, that is.

Now he is dead.

And he, Lord Stark is to take the fall.

Old Gods curse those fucking Lannisters!

As difficult it is to admit, he knows he made a terrible Lord. Fostered in the South. The spare, not the heir. The Lord who was never meant to be…

For all of his father’s southern ambitions, the man couldn’t have imagined Ned becoming Lord upon his death even in his worst nightmare. He didn’t have the mindset of the Northern. At least not entirely. He could barely understand his own bannermen.

To him, what happened to the Greystarks was monstrous.

Unacceptable.

Kinslaying.

But to the Starks of old? Or even to true Starks raised in the North?

It was a perfectly normal punishment for treason.

And while he would have strangled the dragonspawn his sister whelped himself had he not vowed otherwise, a true-born Cadet branch and a lowly bastard are two very different things.

And maybe, just maybe, his second-born, Bran was right after all.

The time of the Wolves is coming to an end.

But he doubts it.

How could he not?

When he first heard of Bran’s ‘dreams’ he was both curious and apprehensive. His son, a greenseer? The Septons would surely have a fit!

But for all that he was fostered in the South, he still had a healthy respect for the Old Gods and their miracles. His son seemed to be one of them.

At least that’s what he thought.

But he was wrong.

Because what kind of seer foretells complete nonsense?!

Dead Wolves?

His pack is stronger than ever! If he is gratefully for anything it’s for the fertility of the Tully bitch.

Mating Lions?

Preposterous! ( _Not_ ).

And while he _could_ believe in the fish being rotten to their core, he was certain that nothing could bring down the Baratheons.

But it was the dreams of Dragons that worried him the most. But in the end, they were also the ones that convinced him that the so-called ‘dreams’ were just Bran’s way to seek his attention. Nothing more, nothing less.

And while he could believe the Bloodraven to still be alive and a Targaryen having a recent dalliance with a Florent, hence the old Raven and young Fox Dragons, but the lack of a half Wolf? Especially when that wretched boy had run away, driving him to the point where he was ready to drag him back with sorcery?

Thus, even if Bran really did have a gift, it was insignificant. Meaningless. Worthless. At least to him.

But perhaps he shouldn’t have thought that in the first place…

And maybe, had he actually cared enough to stay with his crippled son back in Winterfell, this entire situation could have been avoided.

But he didn’t.

And it wasn’t.

***

Lord Stark didn’t stop to think for even a moment that he was brainwashed into the Southern way of thinking. That such a distinction between true-born and bastards was not a Northern trait and neither was his prejudice towards sorcery.

And so even in his last moments, he didn’t think of the runaway ‘bastard’. One of the few with the right to avenge him by taking back what many would view as rightfully his, had they known all the facts.

But Eddard Stark was a fool.

One with a talent to make a bad situation worse.

And a hidden loathing for bastards.

So regardless of the very real threats to his daughters, on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Eddard Stark for once in his life uttered the truth.

The truth that started a war.

And in that aspect, Eddard Stark was truly no better than his foolish sister.

But unlike her, this was a Stark very few would believe a to be martyr.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Cersei was crying.

For the first time in many years.

And had anyone seen her, of the smallfolk, they would naively assume that she was mourning her beloved husband.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Because Robert Baratheon was a drunken, whoring pig whose death couldn’t happen to a better person. And in that sentiment, she completely understands Lyanna Stark. But unlike all those gullible fools out there, she doesn’t pity her. At all.

She isn’t able to.

Because if there was one person on Planetos Cersei Lannister hated more than Robert, it was Lyanna Stark.

The Wolven Bitch.

The Whore.

The ever-present ghost in her marriage…

The one who ruined everything.

The one who took everything away…

Contrary to what Jaimie might think, he was not her first love.

That was Rhaegar.

The Silver Prince.

The Dragon Prince.

 _Her_ Prince.

But for all that she was not the first _or_ only girl to fall for his pretty face and sweet songs, she was one of the very few that due to her high birth could have had her ‘happily ever after’.

But some things were not to be.

Because the Lannisters?

They were Lions. And proud of it. But while Lions without a single drop of Dragon blood within their veins were found lacking, the Dornish were not. And so in the bride race for throne, Elia Martell came out victorious. Just another girl who fell for the Dragon Prince and seemed to get her happy ending. Unlike her. And for the longest time, Cersei hated Elia.

But later, she thanked her. In the darkest recesses of her mind, but she did.

Because being spited and embarrassed in such a way? Being used by the Mad King as a hostage to gain Dornish support? Successfully, that is…

Cersei envied Elia.

Because had she been the one in that situation? Her father, Tywin Lannister wouldn’t have lifted a finger to save her had the benefits not outweighed the risks.

Cersei pitied Elia.

A Princess by right of birth, a Queen to be. But she was alike Rhaella in that aspect. Too meek. Too weak. Too submissive. A Princess only in name. A Queen that was not to be.

When the Mad King rejected the betrothal offer from her father, Cersei was devastated.

A foolish girl of three and ten thought her life to be over.

And wondered…

If the Targaryens married their sisters, if her Dragon Prince preferred to wait for one to be born over marrying her, then perhaps such relations have merit. Maybe the Septons are wrong?

What if they were hiding something from them all?

Something important?

Something you only know of should you lay with one of your own blood?

Perhaps, just perhaps, she will finally understand? Finally know her Dragon Prince? At least in such a way?

And so she pursued her brother.

Not Tyrion, that Imp. Seven help her, she would never stoop so low.

Her attentions fell on her Golden Lion, Jaimie.

But what was meant to be a fleeting memory and a secret adventure, turned into a constant. The one grounding rock of her lifetime.

She had foolishly thought that after her betrothal with the Dragon Prince fell through, the next obvious choice was Oberyn Martell as the heir of Storm’s End was already betrothed. Their mothers were the best of friends after all.

And she had thought…

Why keep her innocence?

It is not as if she will be looked down on. Especially in Dorne.

But then the Rebellion happened.

And she underestimated her father’s desire to have a grandson be King. And honestly, she could understand him. She wanted, no, _yearned_ to be Queen. But she didn’t want to be a Queen-consort. No. She wanted power. She wanted to rule.

And she did.

In theory.

Considering that Robert Baratheon was a drunken whoremonger who cared not about politics, she got the chance. The chance immediately intercepted and taken by her own father, that is.

Her marriage was made worse by multiple circumstances. Her ‘husband’ loved (or wanted) another woman. And Cersei Lannister was no Lyanna Stark. More so, she was no virgin. Damaged goods. A whore, he called her, forgetting that he was little better than one himself.

But he couldn’t return her to her father with a scandal. Not unless he wanted to lose all Lannister military, and most importantly, financial support.

And so they were stuck together in a disastrous, not just loveless, but friendless and affection-less marriage…

But she wanted happiness.

Just a least a little…

And so when her brother opened up his arms, she threw herself into them, caring not for the consequences. Consequences, that came in the form of her three beautiful, golden-haired true Lions, hidden as Stags.

Lions that have been revealed as such, truthfully proclaimed as bastards to the world.

Her worst nightmare come to life.

And there was little even her father, the Old Lion could do.

Because once a secret is out, it cannot be taken back…


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

While Draco could have gone on a trip around Essos, gone to all the magical cities and such, he had no such goals. Perhaps, had he valued the concept of blood-family he had never met more than he did, then he would have traveled to Pentos where the remaining Targaryens were said to be hiding. But he had no such goals.

It wasn’t just that his entire existence and legitimacy was questionable at best.

Or that the ‘Beggar King’ could easily blame him for the actions of his stupid mother and for the origins of the rebellion, hence the Targaryens losing the Iron Throne…

But if there was one thing Draco would never stand for, it was madness. All-consuming and devouring. Caused by the incest of generations…

One only needed to look at his father in his last life to see a _wonderful_ example. A brilliant, beautiful and most importantly, powerful mage in his youth, reduced to a raving-mad lunatic with age. And he at least began as coherent and physically undamaged due to the introduction of fresh blood from his muggle father…

Sometimes, Draco couldn’t help but suppress a shudder that such could have been his fate in this life.

But he banishes such thoughts immediately as they appear. Because he didn’t conduct multiple Blood Rituals for nothing. Didn’t introduce and combine his previous genetic make-up to his new body just to not resemble the Starks.

And _yes_ , he does understand that his genes from his previous life left much to be desired, that the Malfoys bore their single-child curse and the incestuous Gaunts were little different from the sister-fucking Targaryens. But they were his. His blood. Blood that carried his abilities. Abilities he would like to pass onto his own child someday.

And he also knew how to avoid the nastier side-effects of his actions. He wasn’t an idiot.

So much power is carried by names. So much. And so many curses too…

Because when one curses their enemies? They usually say a name. Whether given, when targeting a particular victim or family, when targeting an entire house is irrelevant.

Why did those foolish mudbloods think old families such as Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Slytherin were extinct?

The correct answer was, they _weren’t_.

Like the snakes some of them were, they shed their skins and rose anew. Concealed as so-called Cadet branches, true Gryffindor and Ravenclaw descendants had long-ago slipped away overseas, taking their vast fortunes and secrets with them. To the ire of both the Ministry and the Goblins.

But Hufflepuff and Slytherin?

They stayed.

As the Smiths and the Gaunts, but they did.

And accumulated curses.

The fools.

And so was Riddle.

But as long as he didn’t explicitly announce himself as the heir of Slytherin, he was free. Free of the curses, contracts and the responsibilities.

His mother’s ‘marriage’ in a muggle church was a mundane farce. Not Magically binding whatsoever. Merope didn’t undergo any of the compulsory bridal rituals for witches that were to marry into a different house, the purpose of which is to strip their offspring of any of their maiden-house blood abilities. To Magic, Tom Marvolo ‘Riddle’ was a true Gaunt and Slytherin by blood and magic.

And he had a fresh start.

Unlike the Gaunts.

But that was a boon he didn’t appreciate. Like many mudbloods he wanted more. And no one was there to explain pureblood secrets to him.

And so when he named himself the Heir of Slytherin, the Heir he had become. But with the vassals that were from that point on forced to follow his every order, he received all the ‘gifts’ that were wished onto the heads of his ancestors.

And there were many…

And he went mad.

So Draco’s solution?

In order to not repeat his last father’s mistakes?

To never name himself by names of houses he has any blood-rights to, such as Malfoy, Gaunt, Slytherin, Peverell, Stark or _especially_ Targaryen. Because if he does? All those ‘lovely’ well-wishes will finally find an anchor and rain onto his head.

And it’s not like he has a magical focal point and a Family altars with a boost of power in ‘Family Magics’ attached to those names in this world that would warrant such actions…

But sometimes Draco wonders, what would be the reaction of the Westerosi nobles if they find out that unless their parents had married in a Godswood, they are automatically bastards to Magic? That the traits of houses that have magic in their veins, are carried by the women?

So why did Eddard Stark even think that a marriage in a Sept would suffice?

Well…

He certainly got his result…

And if all his children, even the Stark-like Arya, are more alike his Tully wife then him, then it is he that is the fool.

Draco himself was a wonderful exception to the general rule. For all that he looked like a stereotypical Malfoy, Magically, that wasn’t all he was. Because what was the Dark Mark if not a Magical Bond? To Magic, the intent behind one matters little. Only that one exists. Whether it’s a marriage, a Life Debt, an Ownership brand or a blood relation, such things were all bonds. And the offspring from those? They were all very much legitimate.

Marriage is self-explanatory.

And in an incestuous relationship, the mother remains part of her maiden house and so do her children. That is probably why the Targaryens started marrying their siblings in the first place. Once they had lost the relevant rituals after the Doom, that is. It was the only way for them to keep their Family Magics and dragon rider abilities within the family besides becoming matriarchal.

Why did naïve mudbloods never stop to think that a Life Debt (if they even believe in the existence of such) could be fulfilled by the birth of a mutual child? The condition was a ‘life for a life’ after all.

And in an Ownership brand? One alike the Dark Mark? The subject of such is property, plain and simple. And all assets of said property belong to their Master. Including children. And if they were to have ‘relations’? The resulting child would be free from Ownership by their own parent, but would still be part of their house.

Upon finding that ‘wonderful’ piece of information out, Draco was very glad that for all that Voldemort was a powerful and learned wizard in many aspects, he was still an ignorant half-blood in others. Because knowing that he could come into Gringotts and demand access to all his ‘followers’’ accounts was not a power anyone should yield.

Or his very real and existing power over Draco.

So Draco will take another family name in this life.

One that sounds Valyrian as he has no desire to hide his true visage for the rest of his life.

And one that honors his foster mother, Narcissa, who had done so much for him.

The Draco constellation has so many stars…

And systems…

But Eltanin sounds like a given name. So do Aldibain and Thuban, while Alsafi and Shaowei sound distinctly female. And Rabastan is something that will forever bring ‘dear’ Aunt Bella and the Lestranges to the forefront of his mind. So no thanks, he will pass.

And most importantly, none of those sound remotely Valyrian.

And among those that do?

Draconis? Too similar to his given name. And being called Draco Draconis is just tasteless.

Altais? The Arabic translation of that makes it unacceptable. There is no way he is accepting a surname that quite literally means ‘the goat’. Thinking of the ‘esteemed’ Headmaster of Hogwarts every time he uses his name is the very last thing he wants.

Arrakis? Naming himself and his future descendants for the scientific name of a Peanut? He will not be able to say THAT with a straight face every time he needs to introduce himself.

That leaves Batentaban Australis and Borealis. Australis or Borealis? Southern or Northern? That is the question of the year…

But taking the name ‘Snow’ into consideration? Borealis will serve him well. And Draco Borealis sounds sufficiently Valyrian to pass off as some old family name.

So the Northern Dragon it is.

Considering the circumstances, it is more than fitting.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The trip to Volantis was worse than the one to Lys.

It was a disaster.

It wasn’t just the difficulties of getting out of the city that spelled trouble. No.

It was as if the entire world had decided to stop or at least side-track him for as long as possible. Maybe he should have listened.

For once.

Should have waited at least for the omens to disappear, that is.

But he didn’t.

And not because he doesn’t believe in Divination. He does. But with the readings he was getting? A road paved with difficulties?

So what?

When had his life ever been easy in the first place?

So when he had dropped his salt shaker during breakfast and then promptly walked beneath a ladder while in a hurry to the docks, he chose to ignore the signs.

When the light merchant ship he found a spot on took sail right before dawn, he just wanted more sleep. He didn’t much care for the cursing sailors or the bleeding sky ahead. But maybe he should have. Because just a week into their very stormy journey, they came across pirates.

And the ‘bad sort’ too.

Those that leave none alive unless it is to sell them into slavery.

But Draco didn’t care much about that. For him it was nothing but a minor inconvenience, really. And maybe, in another life, some other Jon Snow would have recklessly ran into the battle, trying to fight a losing battle on the logic that the life of a single bastard is worth so much less than those of the ‘honorable’ men around him. But Draco was not that Jon Snow. And becoming as such would be his worst sort of nightmare.

So he acted like a typical coward. Or so all the fat merchants on-board would say had they known of his abilities and that he could have saved them all with a single wave of his hand.

But Draco wasn’t some spineless Hufflepuff. He didn’t view all humans as long-lost brothers he must protect. Especially as he himself was far from human.

And especially when he had overheard some of them talking of how that ‘foreign-looking but still pretty’ Yi-Ti would make a great pleasure slave when they arrive in Volantis. Saving people like that? Draco isn’t a masochist.

What of the slaves some would ask?

Well…

Draco is no Harry Potter. He doesn’t have a ‘saving people thing’. And above all, he is a realist. It’s not like the pirates will kill or damage perfectly sell-able merchandise. And so for the slaves, nothing would change, whether Draco deigns to save their Masters or not. They would still remain slaves.

Of course, he could call for a mutiny, slaughter all the slave-drivers and announce for freedom for all, but he understands that such would be the actions of a rash idiot. In other words, a typical Gryffindor. Because most of those slaves? They know nothing else. They were born slaves and they would die slaves. They don’t need a Savior. More so, they don’t want one. The moment he would walk away, most of them would lands themselves back into slavery and the cycle would start anew. Especially as most of them would prefer to be a well-fed slave than a starving free man.

Maybe he would have made a different choice had there been any children or magical slaves on-board. But there were none.

And so Draco placed a lovely Disillusionment and a Shield onto himself and quietly stood in a corner throughout all the commotion.

It turned out to be the right thing to do…

Because all the fat merchants locked themselves into their cabins, but when the doors were broken down, all but one were dragged out before the pirates. The one that spoke of his potential future as a pleasure slave, that is.

Something was fishy about this whole ‘attack’…

And he wasn’t the only one to think so…

Because one of the merchants, the one that spoke to the pervert that planned out Draco’s future career, let out a high-pitched shriek.

“You! How could you! I thought we were partners! Friends! Almost brothers!”

That didn’t seem to do a thing for the other, if only served to twist his expression into a victorious snarl.

“Brothers?! A Hog is your brother! So many years that I had to tolerate your filthy presence! Share my profits! Accept you into my home! And how did you repay me?! By sleeping with my own wife?!!!”

The other fat man’s eyes widened. He looked obviously guilty. But that was a fact apparent to everyone but him. So he dug an even bigger whole for himself that he did before.

“How could you ever think that? I would never…”

But the other was having none of it.

“You could consider our friendship and partnership officially over for the reason of your untimely and ‘accidental’ death. I would be VERY distraught at your funeral. And my ex-wife’s”

In that moment, the pirate behind the hysterical ball of blubber, promptly slit his throat. And he bled out. Like the pig he truly was…

But the whole incident didn’t end there.

Because the pirates and the fat merchant’s guards began to line up the captives and slaves. They were obviously dividing them among themselves, having slain all the other merchants. And both the pirate captain and the fat merchant looked very pleased with themselves.

And that was when the pirate captain spoke up.

“‘bout our deal…”

But the fat merchant obviously knew what he was going to say.

“I remember and stand by it! You will get your position among the ‘fair’ merchants of Volantis upon our arrival! I will even vouch for you! And I will obviously need someone to replace my ‘missing’ Partner, and that person might as well be you…”

The pirate captain looked convinced, but it seemed that another thought had occurred to him.

“But ‘bout the slaves? We can’t sell ‘m in Volantis! Someone could recognize ‘m! And I won’t hang for that!”

The merchant looked as if that thought had just occurred to him. But them he obviously had an idea.

“That is why we will sail to New Ghis instead!”

The pirate captain looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

“We won’t make the journey! We don’t have the supplies! And with a ship of slaves!”

The merchant looked at him as if he was stupid.

“That’s why we will take out all the ugly ones! Only leave those that will fetch a high price on the market! And one more thing! There should be a pretty Yi Ti among them! That one is mine!”

The pirate captain looked at the man as if he had lost his mind.

“A Yi Ti? But me and my men see no Yi Ti on-board! And pretty? ‘re you sure you didn’t have too many cups? They ‘re yellow, wrinkled and ugly!”

The ball of blubber that DARED to call dibs on Draco stared at the long column of captives, looking scandalized. He didn’t see him. Obviously. As if some muggle filth could see through his Disillusionment!

“WHERE IS MY YI TI?!!!”

Oops…

Someone sounds _disappointed_.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

The journey to New Ghis seemed to stretch on forever.

And ever.

And ever.

And Draco can barely tolerate hiding among the cargo anymore. But then again, it’s not as if he had any choice in the matter. It was either that or the deck. And he wouldn’t with THAT on anyone.

But it was so BOOORING….

He would have thought that the life of pirates would be more interesting.

It wasn’t.

And he was bored.

The only intriguing thing that happened was when they were passing the ruins of Valyria. The skies were a menacing, rolling black, mixed with flashes of red. He could almost feel the heavy aura of Death that surrounded the place.

And it was almost…

Welcoming?

Or beckoning at least…

But one thing he knows for certain, the ruins of Valyria are definitely a place he will visit sometime. After all, it is rude to turn down an invitation. And it’s not like the Fourteen are still erupting. For a mage of his power, a little toxic fumes barely present any hindrance at all.

But for now, he has a different destination in mind. And a goal that will not make any time for detours. Although travelling to New Ghis instead of Volantis serves his goals perfectly…

And soon enough, he will finally arrive at his destination in one piece.

Although he cannot make any promises on the behalf of anyone else. Because the moment his feet his solid ground?

Those creeps are all going DOWN!

It wasn’t just that the perverted merchant and the pirate captain had a row with each other over a hypothetical ‘pretty’ Yi Ti, and not that the entire thing escalated to a free-for-all brawl on deck when his existence was confirmed. But hearing what those sick fucks were planning to do to him once he was found?

His Malfoy (or Borealis) pride and honor demanded retribution.

With blood.

Lots of it.

So the moment they dock?

The ships are gonna burn, burn, BURN!

And they did.

Merrily.

And about all those poor sods captive below deck?

Well…

It wasn’t as if he cared about the lives of a few worthless muggles, but even then, he wasn’t a monster.

He did throw a shield around their cell…

And if they are smart?

None will ever know of their captivity and subsequent slavery. As just some (and only) survivors, their fate would be much better than what awaited them otherwise.

And if not?

Well…

It’s not like someone else’s stupidity is his problem.

Draco Borealis is as far from a charity service as one could get, after all…


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

In New Ghis, there were no other higher in the Grace Hierarchy than her.

None of the other ‘Colours’ could compare to her lovely Green.

And yes, she is no longer a young maiden, but unlike for a Red, the wisdom and visage gained with age are no tragedy for a Green Grace, They are an achievement.

It is only the naïve slaves that assume that the Graces stand above all, only holding any answer to the Great Masters.

Unfortunately, that was not the case.

And yes, a Grace could afford not to stand accountable to some. But there are those none of them could refuse. And finding that fine balance? The line after which a seeker should be and better yet, could be turned away is the skill one must learn to live to her years.

And thinking back to her youth, she sometimes likens her path to walking upon a blade. One wrong move and you are cut. One wrong move and you bleed. One wrong move and you fall. One wrong move and you are dead.

But she is alive.

Still.

But some, well most, of the ‘sisters’ that were inducted with her, are not.

And not through old age either.

But she was successful.

She rose to the top.

Became a Green.

The only Green in New Ghis…

Many foreigners foolishly think that being the Graces of prophecy, the revered Greens are nothing more that glorified frauds. Just some old women who speak nonsense, and surprisingly, are not turned away. Such a way of thinking, when they are not spewing their ‘Magic is Sin, Magic doesn’t exist!’ nonsense in private is especially visible in the Westerosi.

If only they knew…

If only…

There is a very real reason as to why there are so very few Greens…

And it’s not just for the brutal competition either.

There is a reason why she was inducted as a novice of a Green instead of the Red she was initially brought to be. After all, all Reds have a pretty face, but none of them can see what is to come…

And that was how she became a Green. A secret weapon of the Great Masters of New Ghis. The one that gives them the Harpy’s favor…

But that wasn’t all there was to it.

Yes, her role was to bring about the prosperity of New Ghis and the Great Masters. But who said that she had to serve them _all_? No one. And that is why, the Great Masters always fought for her favor. Never dared to speak a word of ill of her. Not after what had happened.

Not after one _dared_.

The one who yearned for her to become a Red.

The one who pushed her onto the path she didn’t want. Knowing that she would never willingly comply…

But he was a fool.

Like many men.

Because when she became a Green instead of the Red he awaited? He didn’t pull back. Didn’t change his mind. Or plans.

And so Fortune turned away. Until a once rich and powerful Great Master was left a beggar in the dirt. But not for long. He didn’t hold his position without making any enemies after all…

But it wasn’t just the Great Masters that learned their lesson. She did as well. A lesson of power and favor. And choices.

From then on, only she got to chose who would live and who will die. Who will prosper and who will perish. The naïve young girl that wished the best for everyone was gone with her youth. She was smarter now.

So when she saw a figure whose visage flickered like a candle-flame, to the point where she could see the true face underneath the mask, she turned away.

And didn’t look back.

She wasn’t a fool enough to believe that the Great Masters would stay their hand and ignore their greed and ambitions, should she speak of a presence of a legendary Dragonborn in their city. A Dragonborn, whose beauty and power was beyond that of common mortals.

And most importantly, a Dragonborn, who could erase their beautiful city from the face of Planetos by a single thought should they earn his ire.

And they would.

She knows them all well after all.

So she will keep her silence.

For the good of New Ghis.

And the boy’s goals?

What of them? It is not like New Ghis is more than a step-stone before his final destination. And if what she sees holds any truth, he will never be back either.

But those that will warrant his fury in the future?

They are not her problem. Or responsibility.

She has better things to do than fight losing battles after all.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Draco was glad to be leaving New Ghis, regardless of his hidden loathing for sea travel.

But he was now on-guard.

He didn’t expect much from New Ghis. Just a remnant of the Ghiscari Empire that lived on to see their days. The only notable thing about them was their head deity being female and hence making female slavery illegal.

Female, which he obviously wasn’t.

So he was very careful during his entire stay. And while he didn’t try to pass for a local, as his lack of knowledge of the language would obviously give him away, he did drop his Yi Ti disguise. It wasn’t just the scandal on-board his previous vessel that made him do it, but the relative closeness of Yi Ti itself. He didn’t want to draw attention by not knowing some obvious custom. Such a disguise would not withstand any scrutiny…

But even with a different disguise, he was almost discovered. Or rather, he was. But nothing came out of it…

When he had heard of the ‘Graces’, he had a good laugh. A cult which groups Priestesses, Prostitutes and Funeral Officiants into a single order…

None of them had any notable power that he could see. That is, until he came across the Green Grace. A Green Grace that was obviously a mage of some kind. A Green Grace who not only noticed him regardless of his Disillusionment, but had obviously momentarily seen through his disguise.

He was ready for screams.

He was ready for guards.

He was ready to light the city aflame.

But nothing had happened.

The Grace and her procession continued as they were. Nothing was said. It was as if nothing had happened. And had he not been able to tell otherwise, he would have thought that his discovery was just a figment of his imagination.

But it wasn’t.

Although the lack of commotion and trouble didn’t stop him from leaving the city on the first ship to Qarth, regardless of the fact that he would have rather walked through the Red Waste and chanced the Dorokai than enter that city in his usual state of mind. Because he would rather face a Green Grace that could see through his disguise than enter the city that was the den for the House of the Undying.

He should have really taken that detour.

Because by the time he left Qarth for his final destination, the city was in ruins and the House of Undying was no more. It would seem that not even ‘immortals’ could survive a timely thrown Fiendfyre.

But then again, few would expect that at their ‘sudden’ invitation into their home, the unwilling vict…guest would answer with an unquenchable and uncontrollable Dark Curse.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

His ‘brother’ was an idiot.

Bran or now Brynden ‘Stark’ was ready to sign under Every. Single. Word.

And although he was never had any illusions about the average level of intelligence of the last few generations of Starks, seeing such a level of stupidity firsthand, was something else.

As the Bloodraven, he had long ago learnt that love is not always necessary for a betrothal. That duty and agreements must stand above all else. Especially in politics. But Robb Stark? That idiot certainly believes in the ‘love conquers all’ bullshit. Breaking a betrothal with the Freys and expecting them to not rescind their support? What kind of idiot would believe in THAT?!

Leaving Winterfell undefended, while trusting his ‘friend’ who was only a peace hostage and a Greyjoy to boot. And although ‘Bran’ is the one kept hostage now, he is glad for it. He has absolutely no desire to appear before his ‘family’. Especially considering the continuous changes his vessel had begun.

And while a glamour serves well to conceal the silver roots of his hair and the obvious violet glow his eyes have gained about the iris, with the Starks, he could never be certain of his disguise. They didn’t have magical blood for nothing after all and he was no Dragon-Fox…

But he cared not for politics of Westeros no longer.

He was only there, playing ‘captive’ until his magic completes repairing his body. And then he would be gone. Leaving them to face their petty problems by themselves.

His priority is now his Dragon-Fox. And magic. And freedom.

He will not be chained down again.

He was lucky that ‘Jon Snow’ decided to help him out of his contract with the Nightwatch.

As the silver beauty had said,

“There is a very good reason as to why mages and sorcerers swear their vows upon their magic. At least those they intend to keep. There is nothing more precious to a magical than their magic. Losing it is alike losing a limb.

Vows sworn such as ‘I swear on my life’ could be broken. Easily. You only have to think of the house of Undying for an example of how to work around that. They are not dead, but neither are they alive any longer. And that is not even taking into account the range of Undead creatures a sorcerer could transform into whilst still keeping their magic.

And the Nightwatch vow?

‘Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.’

Firstly, you are only accountable during the Night to uphold your ‘duty’ to the Nightwatch. Whatever you do during the Day, matters not. Then there is the matter of there being no set instructions you must follow during your ‘Watch’. You can basically do anything you want. As long as you believe that you are upholding your duty, you will not be held accountable.

And the ‘conditions’ you must uphold?

‘Taking no wife?’ You could take a husband.

‘Holding no lands?’ Well, unless you are into agriculture, it would be the smallfolk ‘holding’ them.

‘Fathering no children?’ It doesn’t say ‘Siring’. You could have them, just not raise them as a Father. Or better yet, you could ‘Mother’ them. What is even the difference? Essentially, it is all in your head…

‘Wearing no crowns?’ Well, there are always tiaras, circlets and other jewelry. And not wearing a crown doesn’t mean that you cannot be a monarch.

‘Wining no glory?’ Not a problem. Someone else could win it for you.

‘It shall not end until your death?’ That one is simple. Just stop your heart for a minute or two, and you are free. Are you a mage or a peasant?!”

And so the moment ‘Bran Stark’s’ head turns Bloodraven’s usual silver, his eyes violet and his features _his_ once more, he will leave the North and the Stark drama and hopefully join his ‘Fox-Dragon’ somewhere in Essos.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Draco was metaphorically climbing walls.

Well…

Mountains, really.

The Bone Mountains.

Because what better place was there in all of Essos but that which no one in their right mind would ever willingly inhabit? Unless they were suicidal, that is. Or Draco…

But if he wants his own dragon, sacrifices must be made.

Living in the literal middle of nowhere, that is coincidentally next to one of the most hostile places in Essos is just one of them.

Of course, he could have gone with the easy route, raising his dragon in or near a city while employing some Disillusionment Charms. But how reliable would that really be? Especially against magic users or those of latent bloodlines like the Starks?

Not really, he would think.

But now, that hardly mattered. Because he was almost there. Almost up to the top. And he hadn’t even been raped and murdered by the Dorokai as would have been predicted by most, had they known of his final destination.

And it wasn’t because he didn’t come across any, either. But Draco had long-since learned that these days, walking around without a Disillusionment was just asking for trouble. Because no matter how ugly he glamoured himself, he always tended to gain some stalkers, which raises the question, was there something wrong with his taste, or does the population of Essos in general just tend to consist of an uncountable number of blind perverts?

But then again, he doesn’t want an answer to _that_ as he has a feeling that it will be the former.

There is a reason why out of all the population of the two continents combined, he was only vaguely attracted to those of Valyrian descent.

And no, it wasn’t the Targaryen blood in him. _Or he would hope not._

And not because they vaguely reminded him of Lucius Malfoy. Gods, no…

He doesn’t have some kind of Oedipus complex. He _doesn’t._

At least he would _hope not_.

But now is just another day spent in this world where he is glad to keep his magic. How do those muggles even survive here?

Masochists…

But then again, if one knows what to look for and compares the ancient magical civilizations with what remains today, then the entire situation is alike one of those muggle commercials ‘See the difference’. Because the Valyrians and the Rhoynish Empires were much more developed than even the remnants of their non-gifted descendants seen today.

Once, a very long time ago, magic ran wild in Westeros. One only has to look at the buildings from those times to be able to tell. Because no one would be able to convince him that structures like the Wall or the Titan could be built without it.

And the fact that it is seemingly disappearing, saddens him.


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Tywin Lannister was mad.

He was _so mad._

And for good reason.

Jaimie, the apple of his eye…

Cersei, the daughter meant to bring the Lannister name to glory…

How could they?

More so, _how dare they?_

He expected something like that from Tyrion. After all, that damn dwarf wasn’t his Bane for nothing. And for good reason too, because the moment he looked away, that Imp _dared_ to marry some commoner whore!

But no matter. That entire disaster had swiftly been dealt with before it could explode in his face and tarnish the Lannister name.

However, his relief was premature.

Had he known.

_Had he known…_

Had he known, he would have stood sentinel and made certain that his foolish daughter did her wifely duties. _Properly._ And not with her own brother too…

But now, he has three ‘pure’ Lannister grandchildren without a single drop of Dragon Blood in their veins. And that was a road paved to disaster. Because putting that Baratheon oaf on the throne? Instead of crowning someone _competent_? Like himself? It wasn’t accidental. It was very much intentional.

Because he had no choice really.

And yes, some fools spout garbage tales of how the ‘Quiet Wolf’ had near became King. But those were the thoughts of ignorant idiots.

Because a Wolf _couldn’t_ unite Seven Kingdoms.

Neither could a Stag or Lion.

They just wouldn’t be accepted.

At least not without a drop of Dragon Blood in their veins.

Dragon Blood Robert Baratheon _loathed_.

Hated.

_Envied._

And _got_ from his very-much Targaryen grandmother.

A grandmother, the existence of which he chose to forget, grouping her with the so-called _Dragonspawn_.

But in the end, the only thing Robert Baratheon inherited from the Dragons was his madness. And his lustful escapades. To the point where the only King Robert would ever be compared to would be Aegon the Unworthy.

Tywin had already heard the whispers.

That even the Mad King was better…

And he may even agree. But only when no one could hear him. Because the Mad King? For all that he spited the Lannister name, for all that conducted ‘burnings’ that only triggered a rebellion when he started burning nobles, he died leaving a full Treasury. And now?

It sat empty.

And the Crown is in debt.

To the Lannisters.

To the Maesters.

And most importantly, to the Iron Bank. An Iron Bank, that would never _‘forgive and forget’_ a debt.

And Tywin Lannister, for the first time in a very long time didn’t know what to do. Because he was happy when the Royal debt grew. It only meant that the Lannister influence on the Iron Throne would be immeasurable for the next generations. Perhaps even allowing for multiple Lannister Queens. He cared little that the next Royal to be in debt would be his own grandson. Especially when looking at Joffrey.

Especially knowing what he knew now.

But for that very reason, he couldn’t just arrange an ‘accident’ for the three bastards to save face. Because not only would the next contender for the Iron Throne, whether Stannnis or Renly would never allow his to rise to power once more, one due to his ‘principles’, in reality meaning a metaphorical stick up his arse and the other being a sword-swallower that would always favour the Tyrells for obvious reasons. Due to grievances between their families and the ‘questionable’ manner of Robert’s death, a Baratheon on the Throne would mean that not a single stag of the Crown’s debt would ever reach the Lannisters.

And that was something he, Tywin Lannister, could not stand for. Especially now, when the Lannister mines have run dry. He wasn’t his foolish oaf of a father for Seven’s sake. And although he quite literally ‘killed the messenger’ as well as all those made aware, until new deposits were found or the mines of Castamere were drained, their position was the most precarious than it had been in thousands of years.

So he has no choice but to pretend the accusations are false. Even if the entirety of Westeros knows otherwise.

There is also the matter of Joffrey’s upcoming marriage. Which isn’t going to happen. At least not to Sansa Stark. Because what benefits would the Wolven bitch bring to the Crown? Other than her pretty face, that is?

Absolutely none.

And most definitely not the loyalty of the Northern barbarians. Not after the execution of Eddard Stark, that is.

Resources?

From a barren wasteland?

Unlikely.

So Joffrey needs a _proper_ wife. One well connected. One whose family would be able to help shut the mouths of most ill-speakers in Westeros as to not cast a shadow onto their daughter about a marriage to a _bastard_.

Margery Tyrell would have been ideal.

But unlike with the rebellion, her family have taken a side early in the game. Although the girl’s marriage to Renly Baratheon is most amusing. Did she have to share her husband with her own brother since her wedding night or has her marriage bed sat empty ever since?

However it was, the family life of the Baratheons holds little weight to him.

Then there is Daenerys Targaryen, the only daughter of the Mad King.

A marriage to her would definitely appease those who want Dragon Blood on the Throne. But the girl holds not a single stag to her name. There is little to no benefits from such a marriage. At least not beyond placing a thin veil of legitimacy over the whole bastard-on-the-throne matter. And marrying a Pauper Princess? Especially after she had lain with a Horse Lord?

He could very well imagine what Joffrey would have to say to _that_ …

Regardless, he will send agents out to find the girl who disappeared after the death of her so-called husband. But he wouldn’t put much hope or value into those attempts.

Maybe he would even send Tyrion. His Bane. Because should that disgusting Imp perish somewhere in Essos during his fool’s errand?

He, Tywin Lannister, certainly wouldn’t shed a single tear.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Draco was staring at the egg.

 ~~It stared back~~.

He didn’t get it. It was as if the stupid thing was mocking him. Taunting him with the possibility of his own dragon hidden in its depths. He had even came up with a name! Prematurely, it seems…

He would take back all his previous thoughts on the stupidity of the Targaryens. Because how hard could it be to hatch a dragon egg?

Especially considering their _‘Fire and Blood’_ House motto?

As Draco had found out, _very_.

He didn’t expect this. All this preparation, and for what? Why travel to the literal middle of frigging nowhere, find the most secluded cave overlooking the Poison Sea, go to all the trouble of decimating its inhabitants and then _failing his goal_? _Repeatedly_?

In the weeks he had been here, he had literally tried _everything._

From fire to blood. To blood _and_ fire. And fire, blood and magic. He didn’t even exclude the Familiar bonding/hatching Rituals of his old world that were secluded in the deepest depths of the Malfoy family library as they were meant for binding _Basilisks_!

Nothing worked.

At all.

Oh, there was _some_ progress gained when combing the Ritual with the fire and blood, just enough to let him know that his egg wasn’t a dud. That there was actually _something_ in there. But the stupid thing didn’t actually deign to _hatch_!

It is honestly driving him up a wall!

If only.

If only…

If only his dunderhead of a father didn’t have to pick out an Ancient dragon egg for his ‘Visenya’! Why did it have to be one originating from seemingly before Aegon’s Conquest _at best_?! Because Draco is certain that therein lies the problem! Because a ‘young’ egg? One laid in the past few hundred years would have already hatched! Even if fossilized!

But _this one_?!

One he has a very strong feeling originates from _before_ the Doom?!!!

Nothing short of true Dragonfire and some hard-core Magic would do the trick!

And where is he even supposed to get Dragonfire from _without_ a _dragon_?!

It’s as if his life turned into one of those ‘what came first’ chicken and egg jokes. Not funny at all. Especially in his case. Because to have a dragon, he must hatch the egg, but to hatch the egg he needs a dragon!

He is of half a mind to ditch his idea and hatch some baby Basilisks instead!

So he _will_ take a break.

Temporarily.

If only to curse his ‘father’ for letting his ego get the better of him in getting Fossilized eggs with _presumably_ better dragons for his ‘Third Head’. Because otherwise? He might give in to his itching temptation to see what _exactly_ happens if he tries _Fiendfire_.

But he isn’t that kind of idiot.

He _will not_ give in.

If only to avoid getting some poached dragon eggs, that is.

But that baby Basilisk idea actually sounds more tempting with every passing day.

Maybe he will even indulge.

Who knows?

He certainly _doesn’t_.


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Daenerys was happy.

Ecstatic!

Elated!

If only her brother could see her now!

Oh wait, he is _dead_ …

What a shame that he wasn’t a true Dragon…

While she is! She is! She is the Mother of Dragons after all! And she has her very own Dragon babes to prove it! She isn’t just some worthless _thing_ anymore!

Not something to be used and thrown away by the men of this corrupt world.

She has deemed it so.

She is the Khaleesi!

The only man that had the right to see her kneel at his feet was her husband. Her dead husband. Her Drogo.

No longer would her entire purpose in life be to produce pureblooded Dragons. More so, it just _couldn’t_ be. There are no pure males left. Or even half-bloods. Certainly none worthy of _her_. Rhaegar, cut down by traitors. Viserys… well, the less said about him the better. Mad Dragons shouldn’t reproduce to taint their line anyway. Aegon? Slaughtered by monsters as a babe. And regardless of all those ‘Valyrian’ pretenders scattered about Essos, if there is one thing she agreed with Viserys on, was that they were all _peasants_. Fake Dragons. Unworthy of even licking her boots.

But their nerve…

They had the daring to spit at them and call for their heads, those so-called ‘Nobles’. Onto _them_. The last pure Dragons. Called them sister-fuckers and traitors. Laughed at the foolishness of their family. Of those that had slaughtered their heritage, their own dragons, until none were left.

That with no dragons, Targaryens held no power.

They were nothing.

Well they shall see how ‘insignificant’ this Dragoness is now. And how ‘harmless’ her babes are. How would those upstarts like to taste some Dragonfire?

How dare they look down at her family? Her family, who had never held a slave in three hundred years?! What gave them the right?

Well…

They certainly think that their Slaves are _Nothing_. How would they like to lose them, she couldn’t help but wonder when she was a young girl…

And now, she even has the power to find out.

She can just imagine the titles, Daenerys the Righteous! Daenerys the Noble! Daenerys the Free!

And she has already started her path to glory!

The Unsullied would now follow her anywhere! Even in her conquest of Westeros! Because there will be a Conquest. Because she will make those traitorous cowards _pay_. Pay for their treachery. For the annihilation of her Family. Pay for the assassins sent in the night. Pay for her dead brother, because regardless of how she felt about him, he protected her until the very end. Until the sweet teen that once told her bedtime stories turned into a paranoid young man, so scared of his own shadow that he slipped further into insanity with every passing day. His death was a mercy even if he didn’t see it that way.

But more so, she will avenge her son.

Her unborn babe.

And while she had burned the Hag that tricked her, she knows she didn’t act alone. She _couldn’t_ have acted alone.

It was those Baratheons, Lannisters and the Starks!

They _had to_ have payed her!

She _knows_ they did!

And now _they_ will _pay_!

With their blood.

In that moment, Daenerys had made the decision that gave her resolve to continue on. Resolve, that didn’t falter even after many years. Her decision set her down the path of Fire, Blood, Ruin, and in another life, her own Death. But for all that she had begun her gradual descent into madness the moment she held her dead child in her arms, in this life, there was no Jon Snow to put her out of her misery.

In this life, Daenerys Targaryen _did_ obtain her dream.

For better or for worse…


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

He was itching.

Badly.

And not because he was some unsanitary brute from the Middle Ages.

He couldn’t stand it!

He hated it!

He wanted it to stop.

But he knew it wouldn’t.

Not when he was lucky enough to have skipped the ‘lovely’ experience in his first life.

Because he died before it happened, that is.

And although a magical ‘inheritance’ has many benefits such as an extended lifespan, perhaps even immortality if one is _really_ lucky as well as extra bloodline abilities, to the envy of ignorant mudbloods, he would rather avoid it altogether. But then again, that might have been due to a fear of the unknown. There is a very good reason why purebloods are so picky when it comes to marriage after all. Because what kind of offspring would a Goyle get with a Delacour? That is a part Troll with a part Veela?

He would hope to never find out.

But his case was something else entirely. From his distant descent from High Elves and the more recent Veela blood on the Malfoy side, as well as Naga heritage from the Slytherins and Gaunts that was recent enough for the Dark Lord to gain some attributes after his resurrection… He honestly had no idea of what kind of Chimaera he may turn out to be, so his apprehension was justified. But that was his previous life. A life where he was most likely to become some kind of scaly Veela.

But this time around he couldn’t even begin to predict just _what_ he will turn out to be. And not because he was stupid, either. But because he couldn’t even begin to guess what kind of ‘surprise’ was hidden in his ancestry. Because _no one_ would be able to convince him that immunity to flame and kinship with dragons is a normal _human_ trait! And the Starks? Those were a mystery altogether.

It shouldn’t have been a problem.

After all, one only undergoes any _significant_ changes in the first three generations. After that, the blood is too diluted to have much physical influence. The changes remain magical and internal. And it isn’t as if you wake up on the day of your seventeenth birthday, mysteriously having sprouted a pair of horns or something. When he read _that_ in one of the ‘Ministry Approved’ books recommended for Hogwarts’ upper years, he had a very good laugh. After all, the changes tend to be very gradual. One might even be born with them. The only reason why the seventeenth birthday is so focused on is due to it usually being the peak of one’s magical power. Magical power that actually stimulates the changes. Magical power, which Squibs, such as most of the Valyrian descendants do not have.

So taking logic into account, Draco Malfoy _should have_ had a bit of the Veela allure, certainly less than Lucius, maybe even an affinity to fire but nothing else beyond that. But he didn’t. And the Parseltongue was the first warning bell.

After all, Salazar Slytherin lived a thousand years back, how many of the British purebloods were actually his descendants? Considering the inbreeding? _All of them_. And most importantly, Parseltongue certainly wasn’t a Slytherin-only trait. There were many other families that had the ability. They just preferred to keep it quiet. But how many present-day British wizards, that were most certainly all descendants of at least one Serpent-Speaker can actually Speak Parseltongue?

Few.

And yes, magical families most definitely conducted rituals to keep desired traits in their descendants. But they still diminished over time. The reason why it is recommended to marry wizards with similar affinities or even _distant_ cousins. But the Gaunts? The family that preferred to marry their own _siblings_ if only not to ‘lose’ their gifts, or better yet, _share_ them. And in that aspect, the Targaryens were little better.

So now Draco has a problem. A problem that begins with recent Veela heritage, and two incest-filled, likely serpentine inheritances that were dormant until an introduction of fresh magical blood. At least the High Elven and the ‘unknown’ from the Starks were far back enough as to not be a bother.

There is also the matter of affinities.

The Veela most definitely have fire. So do the mysterious Targaryen ancestors. With both having a secondary affinity of air which allows them to feel at home in the skies. But Naga have Water. And High Elves, Earth. While the Starks get Ice from their ‘unknown’. For the love of Merlin! What is he even supposed to do with so many conflicting elements?! If unstable, they will tear him apart!

His only hope so far, is for something to remain dormant.

But how likely is that?

With his luck, that is…


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

He honestly shouldn’t be surprised.

But he is.

Even if he did spend forever thinking on the topic. Hoping to prepare himself…

Not that _that_ helped.

After all, from his experience in his past life, he could have taken a very good guess at his affinities. With his talents at Potions, Quidditch and the Mental Arts, that is. So now with a major Air affiliation with a very slight secondary affinity towards Water. And transforming into some kind of feathered snake with tiny wings that most definitely _wouldn’t_ get him off the ground unless he loses 99% of his weight is most definitely not ‘unexpected’.

It’s a surprise, that’s all.

The closest thing he could think of is an extinct species of Empyrean dragon from his first world. But with two pairs of limbs and tiny wings, that is. The coloring is a very similar silver/ white with a violet hue though.

And _no_ , he is _not_ vain.

_~~Yes he is.~~ _

And he _didn’t_ spend hours in front of a conjured mirror to admire his new appearance.

_~~Yes he did.~~ _

Well…

It could have definitely been worse.

At least he can sleep at night. His looks are definitely far from ugly when in transformation. Although he definitely didn’t expect to transform so _completely_. At most, he thought maybe some scales or feathers in unspeakable places, but not _this_ …

Partial transformation will surely be interesting…

A ‘Naga’ tail in silver/white with a violet sheen…

Wings that while tiny and embarrassing in his ‘dragon’ form will be _perfect_ while ‘human’. Or humanoid. Whatever…

In that moment, something glistened in the setting sun. Something hidden deep inside his cave.

As fast as a lightning strike, Draco, in his dragon-turned glory turned towards _his precious_. He could no longer string a coherent thought. All that was left was a blaring primal instinct. A panic. And only settling to wrap around _his_ egg, did he contently think, _MINE_ …


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Young Griff, whose blue hair secretly hid the identity of Aegon ‘Targaryen’ even from himself, didn’t know what to do.

When had his life turned into such a mess, he wouldn’t mind asking…

He _knew_ Griff wasn’t his father. No matter what the old man implied in public. He _knew_. Even before the old man said anything. Even before Griff began comparing him to someone called _Rhae_. Especially when he became older and more alike _apparently_.

Young Griff didn’t know _how_ , but he just _knew_ things. Somehow.

Especially when he was being lied to, or something was left unsaid. Sometimes he even had Dreams. Dragon Dreams. But then again, many people in Essos had Dragon blood in their veins. The fact that some boy out there woke his up hardly matters _at all_.

But no matter what, he never told _anyone_. Not even Griff. His ‘father’. Because it wasn’t _right_.

And lately the Dreams have become persistent. Urgent. Like warning bells…

He had almost even made up his mind. To ignore that strange ‘feeling’. To tell Griff everything. But he didn’t. And that was the right thing to do. He just didn’t know it at the time.

He always knew Griff loved him. And he was right. But where he thought more along the lines of _familial love_ , his ‘father’ definitely thought of _something else_. So waking up in the middle of the night with a body on top of him, touching him and whispering things he would rather scrub from his mind was definitely a wake-up call.

That time, he was lucky.

For Griff was so in his cups, that he found the strength to push him off. Something he would have never managed had the man actually been sober. Sending him flying against the wall had the added bonus of his ‘father’ failing to remember anything the next day, believing himself to be a ‘victim’ of a bar fight.

But whether his ‘father’ truly forgot or _pretended to_ was of little consequence. Because Young Griff wasn’t an idiot. Because while drunk, the man spoke of ‘feelings’ he usually had the sense not to act upon. The last thing he needs is for the man he called ‘father’ to make up his mind and decide to act while prepared and sober.

Young Griff thought that sleeping with a dagger was only an excessive precaution. And while hopefully not needed for protection from his ‘father’, he would still like the means to be always on-hand. Because who knows what kind of perverts are out there? 

But he was wrong.

And now, he is covered head-to-toe in the blood of whom for the longest time seemed to be his only living relative. A ‘relative’ whose body is breathing its last breaths upon the floor.

But he doesn’t regret it.

Not. A. Single. Bit.

Because being pushed face-down onto his bed? Having his mouth shut by the hands that raised him to stifle any screams? Being touched and pinched and slapped in places _no one_ should be touched unwilling?

That is something he could not forgive.

Would _never_ forgive.

But he is safe.

For now.

Until someone realizes he is now alone, that is. Alone. Without any protection. From the ‘predators’ or the Slavers.

The last thing he wants is for some monster wearing a human face to continue what his ‘father’ started. Especially on a permanent basis in some brothel.

He isn’t a naïve child.

He knows better than to believe in the best.

Especially as the marks of his previous trusting foolishness cover his body in blaring spots of purple and red. Purple marks in the shape of hand-prints. Bite marks on his shoulders and collarbones... 

Hopefully the last ones in his life, to be administered to him against his will.


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Illyrio was furious.

For good reason too.

And his partner-in-crime knew it.

“What were we even _thinking_?! We knew just _what_ Connington was like! And his _inclinations_! _Right from the very start_! And we… no _you_ still trusted him with _my son_! My only child! So now _what_?! What are we to do Varys?!!!”

The eunuch had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Illyrio…cousin…”

“ _DON’T YOU DARE ‘COUSIN’ ME_!!!”

“Illyrio… we don’t know what really happened. All that we do is that Connington was found pants-down in their home with seven stab wounds. Nothing else. The house was cleared of all valuables, which was just as likely to be Aegon as some band of thieves. We just have to find him. That’s all.”

“SO WHY IS HE _STILL_ MISSING?!!! WHY DID YOU ONLY NOTICE HE WAS GONE _AFTER THREE DAYS_??? WHAT KIND OF MASTER OF WHISPERERS _ARE YOU_?!!! WHAT WERE YOUR ‘LITTLE BIRDS’ EVEN DOING?!!! _SLEEPING_???” Illyrio was vibrating with rage. Purple faced and almost frothing at the mouth at that point.

“We will find him. He is but a boy. Where could he have possibly gone anyway? He hasn’t left the city. Because if he did, I would have been notified immediately. Especially considering my presence in Essos at this point in time. And the ‘Little Birds’? The ones too foolish to notice his disappearance? The ones too short-sighted to perform their duties? Well… They wouldn’t have any duties again. _Ever_.”

“Fine. You better hope that he is found soon. Otherwise, our plans will definitely be completely ruined… How is the Targaryen girl going anyway? Is everything according to plan?”

“Not quite.” Varys looked as if he swallowed something sour.

“How so?” Illyrio was genuinely confused. He remembered the quivering but pretty shade that flinched at any sudden movements after all. So alike Rhaella. Perfect for their long-term plans. The Horse Lord was meant to break her in even further, to the point where she wouldn’t lift her eyes off the ground without permission. A perfect Queen. A perfect mother. One that wouldn’t dare to ask questions or argue. Ever.

“It seems that instead of being satisfied with a subservient hole to fuck, Drogo preferred his ‘wife’ willful. And encouraged her emerging bad habits. It was nothing some breaking-in wouldn’t fix. But unlike what was expected, instead of losing her anchor and support with her husband’s and child’s deaths, she grew defiant instead. Willful enough that much of her ‘husband’s’ Khalasar chose to follow her instead of his Bloodriders.” Varys was gritting his teeth at that point.

“That indeed sounds like a problem. But nothing an encounter with some Slavers and a few moons ‘working’ in a brothel couldn’t fix.” Illyrio was confused. His friend and cousin was never hesitant to act on these kinds of things. He certainly didn’t need to be told what to do. Breaking in defiant girls was barely of any problem in Essos. Or in Westeros for that matter. You just had to know the right people.

“That isn’t all of it. The little bitch has hatched some dragons.”

“ _WHAT_?!!! _How_???”

“I was hoping you could tell me the _HOW_?!!! Were the eggs we prepared not fossilized? Were they not just a joke? A gag gift to show the Targaryens what they could have had but never will??? And although they couldn’t have known, there was certain irony in ‘gifting’ them _their own_ eggs. Their own eggs that wouldn’t and couldn’t be hatched?!” Varys’s anger in his hate for anything unexplainable and ‘magical’ was perfectly understandable given the nature of the origins of his _ailment_.

“But that’s what they were! The very same eggs no Targaryen, or Blackfyre for that matter could hatch for centuries! What are we even to do now?...”

“I know not cousin. I know not. But one thing is for certain, nothing is going the way we had planned. Perhaps getting close to the girl that fashions herself ‘Queen’ would be the wisest move at the moment…”


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

_Bloodraven was running._

_Fast._

_Away or towards something, he knew not._

_He stumbled through the streets. Through the Fog._

_The entire setting was strange._

_Eerie…_

_Especially not knowing what he was looking for. But he was. Looking that is…_

_Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to stop to actually think…_

_But the moment he did, he heard a high-pitched whine. A tortured sound. A terrified animal crying for its mother…_

_So when he took a step towards the sound, he saw…_

_A black baby dragon crying for help. Abandoned in a dark alley in Volantis…_

_Calling for its nest-mates._

_And Bloodraven was the closest…_

_But as he reached to scoop up the babe…_

He gasped awake…

And _understood_. 

***

Young Griff was cold.

Of course he was. Anyone out on the streets at night is.

It had been three days.

Only three.

And already he had a traitorous thought slip through. _What if he goes back? Surely Griff’s buddies from the Golden Company would take him in? Surely his fears are unfounded? Surely as almost a man fully grown he would be of some use? Would find his place in this cruel world…_

He wanted to leave Volantis as soon as possible. But he couldn’t. Considering that the men at the gates knew both him and Griff personally, his chance to leave unnoticed and alone was next to non-existent.

Oh, he didn’t stay on the streets. He wasn’t desperate. Or at least _that_ desperate _yet_. He just felt despondent. Not knowing what to do. He no longer had a goal in life. He had no family. He never had, really.

Where before he was dragged all over Essos by his so-called ‘father’, never actually putting much thought into what he wanted from his life, now he has to make decisions on his own. He wouldn’t survive otherwise. He needs a goal. Something to give him direction. Give him _reason_.

But all his musings have brought him, in his despondent wanderings in the dark alleys of the slums of Volantis was a higher chance to get robbed. That is all.

Even his Dreams were unclear.

Showing him signs he couldn’t read…

How was he supposed to interpret a Raven swooping down onto him anyway? As some kind of warning sign?

He was so deep in his thoughts, that he didn’t hear anyone approach. Not until he was grabbed by the sleeve, that is. For a moment, he thought of robberies and corpses. Of no one ever finding his body. For all that he was six and ten, he was still a scared child in many ways. So he was expectedly relieved that the person who stopped him was but a boy himself. Perhaps even younger than him. But something in the boy’s appearance seemed familiar. And not just the blue hair either.

But as he turned towards him, he realized the other had spoken.

A name.

Not his name.

Not that he knew what it really was himself…

Because ‘Young Griff’ certainly _wasn’t_ it. He would hope his real parents had more taste than _that_.

“Daemon?!” it began with almost a shout, phasing out into a hesitant near-whisper. The hopeful and apprehensive expression on the stranger’s face slowly gave way to one of disappointment.

After a moment of awkward silence, the stranger deemed it necessary to explain himself. “My apologies. I seem to have been mistaken.”

But Young Griff was barely listening to the stranger’s apologies. Because not once in his entire life was he ever mistaken for someone else. Oh, he had met plenty of those who shared his Valyrian looks, but none so similar of face. It was always just a passing resemblance. Just the general coloring, nothing else.

Yes, apparently, if he were to trust Griff’s drunken ramblings, he did resemble someone called _Rhae_ to a great extent, but after what happened, he would hardly place any merit into his words.

But now? Here? In front of his very eyes? When he can he the likeness of blood shared? When he actually finally has a chance to know something of his real family? And not just some empty platitudes of how he is ‘too young’ and will find out ‘later’. A ‘later’ that was long overdue but had never come.

So he took a dive into the dark unknown. And he wouldn’t let go of his _obviously_ related acquaintance until he receives all the facts. “Mistaken?”

The stranger, hopefully soon to-be _not_ looked annoyed. “Oh, for my idiotic moron of a half-brother. Believe me, it is a most unfavorable comparison. In your place, I would be very glad to _not_ be him.”

“Half-brother? Do you happen to have a large family?”

“Oh, believe me, _family_ is too strong of a word… A gathering of blood-related imbeciles is more the like. Especially considering the illegitimate origins of most ‘members’. I could barely tolerate the fools even on the better days….” None of the information sounded very reassuring, but then again, it wasn’t as if legitimacy was given too much weight in Essos. It wasn’t Westeros after all…

“Surely there is at least someone that you like?” and _yes,_ Young Griff did sound like a hopeful idiot, but he couldn’t help himself. After all, no one wished to be related to a group of despicable people that couldn’t keep it in their pants. But then again, he never had many illusions concerning his own ‘legitimacy’, regardless of Griff’s ranting and loathing towards bastards.

“Oh of course there is. One person. You would either love him or hate him. There is no in-between. But then again, only if you get through his façade. Otherwise, you will be deemed a drooling idiot he would never talk to. So yes. Just one person. But then again, that sad number might soon rise to two…”

With that ambiguous statement, the ‘stranger’ grabbed him by the hand and pulled.

“Where are we going?!” Young Griff was confused. This person was crazy…

“Away! Isn’t that what you wanted in the first place? And by the way, there are no sane people only those who put up a better front…”

_Did he say that out loud?!!!_

“Yes. You did.”

So like the trusting fool he said he _wasn’t_ , Young Griff followed a stranger with unknown intentions and destination into hopefully a better future…


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Draco awoke to chirping.

Persistent chirping.

Chirping that was mixed with some blundering hisses.

But there were enough of those to understand the intent… “Ma… *Chirp*… Mama… *Hiss*… Mamamamamamama….”

Draco opened his eyes. If only to tell the mysterious child to take their problems elsewhere. But he didn’t get far with it. Because he saw…

A baby.

A dragon baby.

A dragon baby so similar to his new transformation it could be mistaken for his child.

Considering the persistent chirping, it definitely did.

But luckily his Parseltongue would help him clear _that_ misunderstanding…

_“Child, I cannot be your mother…”_

_“Mama!”_

_“I am not…”_

_“Mama!”_

_“But I am…”_

_“MAMA!!!”_

…Or not.

Eventually, Draco gave up on trying to convince the hatchling using words. Obviously it was too young to understand them…

So he decided to try another way.

A real-life example so to speak…

He transformed back to his ‘human’ form…

So imagine his surprise when the baby dragon followed his example…

…Leaving behind a violet-eyed, silver-haired infant.

And while Draco had always prided himself for his duress under stress just like any Malfoy, he might have fainted for a moment or two. But no one was there to witness his embarrassment, so he will pretend the entire incident had never happened in the first place.

…He just randomly decided that having a baby and being a single parent at fifteen is a wonderful idea. Totally…

If only he could bring himself to believe it…


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

Catelyn didn’t understand what to do. Or how her fortune turned out this bad so fast.

First she was engaged to a barbarian.

A Northern brute.

If she cried on Lysa’s shoulder and allowed Petyr some liberties in her desperation, no one would ever know. Her only hope was for her match to be tolerable and her betrothed, bearable.

He wasn’t.

Brandon Stark was alike her worst nightmare come to life.

It wasn’t just that he loathed _her_ , loathed her family, loathed the South. No. Those were the least of his grievances. He didn’t have to like _anything_ , just uphold the terms of contract. Do his duty. Nothing else.

But if there was one thing Catelyn couldn’t, no _wouldn’t_ stand for it was her future husband shaming her. And shame her he did. Publicly. It wasn’t just that he had a paramour he wished to marry. _As if she didn’t_. Catelyn Baelish sure would have sounded better than Catelyn Stark. Stark _what_? Stark _naked_? But visiting brothels? While meeting his _future wife_? Did he have absolutely no tact or shame?

She was secretly glad when her beloved Petyr stood up for her honor that day. Even if she couldn’t cheer. At least openly. Oh, how much she wished for his victory! For _that brute_ to be cut down. Regardless of the vengeance of the North. Regardless of the fact that her father would never let her wed a minor Lord instead of a future Lord Paramount.

Alas, it was not to be…

But still she prayed. Prayed in the Sept every single day. Prayed to the face of the Stranger. She should have chosen the Maiden. Because her prayers? They rang true. And were answered.

Her hated betrothed was no more. Killed by his own foolishness in the most humiliating way. The stain to her reputation was washed away with his own blood. No longer was she tied to those Northern brutes. No longer would she have to dread living in a realm of a Godless people.

_What kind of religion worships trees anyway?_

But her relief was premature.

Her father, in his persistence, found her yet another brute to marry. And regardless of her dearest wishes, this one didn’t succumb to a mysterious ailment, or fall of his horse before their wedding.

And so she was married.

To her worst nightmare.

To a Northern brute.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

She couldn’t even pray.

At least their marriage was a _proper_ one. For the lack of a Godswood, her husband had to settle for a Sept. And she was glad. Until she heard whispers of bastards and marriage. Of the authority, and legitimacy of foreign Gods in Winterfell. Of North and South. Of how she was _foreign_. How she _didn’t_ belong. And _never would_.

But she didn’t pay much mind to those. She was a Lady after all. What does she care for the gossip of the smallfolk? Not that it stopped her from getting the culprits flogged and thrown out of the castle. She didn’t care. She had her little Robb after all. Her beautiful baby. Her darling, with his Tully-red hair. Nothing like his brute of a father.

As if she would want to bring more barbarians into this world!

Things seemed to be getting better…

Mayhap that brute would do her a great favor by getting himself killed in the rebellion and leaving her a rich widow Regent. Free to marry once more to one of her own choosing. Or even, Seven forgive her, living in sin with her Petyr until she was done ‘mourning’.

But it was not to be.

That barbarian _dared_ to come back. And with a bastard, no less.

That was the day when she promised herself that no matter what it takes, that _creature_ wouldn’t threaten the rights of her own children. He would never even dare to _think_ about it. She would make sure of it. She wouldn’t rest until _that little beast_ is gone. To the Wall or the Stranger is of little consequence.

And as time passed by, some things got better.

Or maybe they just got _easier_ …

She got used to her husband. Mayhap even became fond of him. Fond enough to birth him five children, that is. And he was grateful! He even built her _a Sept_!

As for guiltiest pleasure? She was allowed to treat the bastard as she wished! From housing him in the coldest and smallest room in the servants’ quarters, to banning him from any lessons with the Maester and meals at the family table... She tried it all. Surely it shouldn’t take too much to break the pitiful creature? Make him feel unwelcome? Oh, if only her shame was a girl… There was only so much she could do to a boy that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, after all.

But no matter what she tried, the bastard didn’t show any signs of breaking. It was as if he didn’t even care. It was as if he dared to find no shame in his sinful nature. And he one thing he definitely dared to do, was to outshine her Robb! She wouldn’t stand for it!

But one day, it seemed that her prayers were finally answered!

Jon Snow disappeared.

She didn’t even notice at first…

No one did.

Not until Sansa embarrassed herself in front of the Royals by introducing some distant and _very much legitimate_ cousin as ‘their family’s bastard and _shame’_ due to some bad lighting and a slight resemblance. And sadly, unlike the King, the Karstarks found absolutely no mirth in the situation. But what did she care that some barbarians found offence at their hospitality? It was good riddance that they left! Housing and feeding so many brutes was draining the family coffers!

She was happy!

Her bane was _gone_! She was finally free! _After so many years_ …

But the feeling didn’t last.

Because her husband certainly didn’t share her sentiments. He grew worried. Restless. But she knew him enough to know that it wasn’t with worry for _her shame_. No. It was something else. He was so engrossed in his concerns that he didn’t even stay for their Bran. Their little boy that may have never woken up.

Turns out that for all that she grew to care for him, for all that she valued her marriage, her husband didn’t feel that way at all. Because what kind of father and husband abandons their family in a time of need? And was it just to ‘help’ a friend he hadn’t seen in years or for the sake of his own ambitions?

Now, she would never know…

Because her husband is dead.

Gone.

Forever.

Arya, regardless of, or maybe _because of_ her terrible manners and unladylike behaviour, may be as well…

Sansa, her darling that was _made to be_ Queen, a hostage in King’s Landing…

Bran, her crippled child, who came awake only to go missing…

Rickon, her baby, held prisoner by that ungrateful Squid…

And Robb, the son she had raised almost single-handedly is now the son that fails to listen to her advice. It doesn’t enrage her as much that her child had became a _supposed_ kin-slayer by chasing ‘justice’ for some Lannisters that she does admit would have made for valuable hostages. It’s not like she would ever consider northern brutes her kin after all. And hopefully, neither would Robb. But the Karstarks had _dared_ to question their liege lord. They deserved their punishment. After all, no one hears of any Lords, even kin daring to backtalk or question the decisions of Tywin Lannister! How is the Lord Paramount of the North different from that of the Westerlands?

No. The fact that her own child that she had raised _properly_ to be what a true southern lord should be (neglecting that she had never received any ‘lordly’ education other than that that makes one a dutiful wife) to bring civilization and culture to the land of barbarians failed to heed her advice. Those actions of her son have now lost much support of his bannermen by his rash actions. And made certain enemies of the Lannisters. If only her child chose to conceal the deaths of the captured Lannisters. If only… If only he saw her reasons for the release of Jamie Lannister…

But her son chose ‘love’ for some commoner whore over his duty! And he is now the son that keeps her under lock and key alike some common criminal. Her! _His own mother_!

Catelyn Stark wishes she could go back to being Catelyn Tully more often than not these days. Perhaps even to be caught during one of her many trysts with Petyr and be married in haste and embarrassment. But she would have lived through the shame to persevere as it would not be for duty but for love.

But she knows just who to blame for this entire disaster that her life had become. It was surely _that bastard_! Jon Snow! That sinful abomination brought this into their lives! His disappearance _couldn’t_ be a coincidence!

And not for a moment did Catelyn Stark stop to think, that maybe, _just maybe_ , it was the presence of the very bastard that she cursed, that kept the storm at bay.


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

Draco didn’t know what to do with children.

He didn’t!

He wasn’t even planning any in the next twenty years!

His extent of childcare knowledge was to hold it a little to pose for photographs then pass it on to someone else. Usually the House Elves! That is it!

Even in his worst nightmares he could never imagine willingly signing up for _this_! And _yes_ , he did have the Family library with him so gaining some instruction was not the problem. But he would have never thought that he would be _caught dead_ reading something alike ‘ _What to Expect When You are Expecting’_ or the ‘ _Womanly Art of BREASTFEEDING_ ”!!! And those were the _muggle_ books ( _Don’t even ask how they got into his book collection_ )! The magical selection was even worse considering the very graphic moving pictures…

He is _male_! He doesn’t need to know this! _Thankyouverymuch_!!!

Could he Obliviate himself?

Seriously!

People are meant to plan these things!

Well…

Probably not most of those in Westeros.

At least most mages tended to know what protection is since before the rise of Ancient Egypt!!! ( _Unless they are the Weasleys_ )! Who wants to have an unrestrained number of children on the basis that most of them would die off anyway?

He _didn’t_!

On the bright side though, he found a great method to create a large Clan in very little time. Considering his reading material, he doubts he will _ever_ be convinced to try the ‘natural way’. He just needs more dragon eggs and he will be set for life! That’s all!

And those who will help to raise them…

Because he isn’t the kind of idiot to try _that_ on his own. He isn’t about to degrade himself to the level of Molly Weasley.

He even has a candidate…. Who just has to get here to obtain his ‘surprise’.

But for all his complaints, when he isn’t screaming his lungs off, the newly dubbed Lucius is a darling… With his moon-spun wisps of silver hair and eyes that seemed to turn such a deep grey, it was almost black in the dark... If only he wasn’t such an attention seeking monkey that clamps down on any loose strand of hair within his reach and pulls it into his mouth… Growing it out to reach the nape of his neck is definitely something he should reconsider. Even if it looks _amazing_.

_And no he isn’t vain._

Yes. He is.

And he is proud of it.


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

“Where are we going?”

“Forward.”

“Where _to_?”

“Home.”

“Where is home?”

“Somewhere.”

“When will we get there?”

“Sometime.”

“But how long…”

“Would you be so kind to be _quiet_?!” …And Bloodraven had finally lost his patience. But to be fair, he had little dealings with children or _teenagers_ in many decades, so his frustration was understandable.

“But…” Young Griff, or as Brynden so snidely put it, mini Daemon was just as, if not _more_ annoying than his famed ancestor. Bloodraven was dead certain of the relation, regardless of the fact that Blackfyres and Targaryens looked _very_ similar. One just _couldn’t_ pull off the same level of infuriating and not be some long-lost great-grandson or something. Although with his luck, his companion might as well turn out to be _his_ long-lost great-grandson and not Daemon’s. But he refused to believe it. It wasn’t possible. Nope. No way.

“No buts little Daemon. We are going where we need to go. And we will get there when we get there. Cease your mindless chatter and focus on your horse. If you ignore the road for much longer, than the next ditch you fail to avoid will see you unsaddled.”

“Why do you keep insisting on calling me Daemon? Isn’t that your brother?”

“Yes. He was. Once upon a time. Though nothing good came out of it. And it’s not like you know your actual name, so you might as well borrow his for a time. You never know, you might be more entitled to it than you think.” Ah…. The nostalgia…

“Well…at least it is better than Young Griff. Since not too long ago I don’t feel comfortable to be associated with Griff _anything_. But where are we going? Seriously! With the route we are taking right now, the only thing I can think of us finding is some Slavers, a Dorokai horde or, if we are spectacularly unlucky, _both at the same time_!”

“Little Daemon, do you believe in magic?”


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54

“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

“Luc! Go away!”

“Wake up mama! Wake up!”

“Go back to bed! The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Yes it is!”

“No it isn’t”

“It is! I can see it!”

“Just because you can see in the dark doesn’t mean it’s morning!”

“But mama! I want to go flying mama! You promised me we will go flying!”

“I said tomorrow _morning_! Does _this_ look like morning to you?!” To emphasize his point, Draco crawled out from under his nest of blankets and waved his hand. Without opening his squinted eyes, that is. If he did, he would have been very surprised that it was indeed morning. Perhaps even midday…

But any onlooker would have been far more shocked by his surroundings. Especially had they ever been this high up in the Bone Mountains. Because while the highest peaks overlooking the Poison Sea remained just as desolate and covered in snow as ever from afar, up close it was a _very_ different story.

Because a Malfoy?

Even one that took on a new name would never be satisfied with living as a Cave Man. Oh, Draco was perfectly capable of survival in the wilderness. But only if the situation called for it. He wasn’t some magic-less dunderhead who would die without supplies after all.

And yes, he _did_ stay in a cave at first. It wasn’t even _that_ bad. Considering the Wards and Warming Charms, that is. But it wasn’t comfortable. It certainly _wasn’t_ up to his standards. And for the love of Merlin, it sure as Hell wasn’t home!

So when he got his hands full of an unplanned child, on one hand he was freaking out. But on the other?

He was relieved.

He now had a legitimate excuse to stay away from ‘civilization’.

Because while he could try to find his place in this unwelcoming world, could even conquer a ‘ _Free_ City’ to stroke his own ego. But what would that do? Only call attention to himself. And thus make him vulnerable. A target. Because what assets does he have? Besides his magic, his inheritance and a child on his hands?

He doesn’t have powerful relatives.

He doesn’t have the support of the population.

He doesn’t have loyal comrades. ( _Or_ minions…)

He doesn’t have an army.

He would get nowhere.

Especially when looking at the history of house Targaryen. Because he isn’t one to repeat the mistakes of others. He isn’t some rash Gryffindor that needs to conquer some barbarians in order to feel powerful and stroke their overinflated ego. He doesn’t want a measly 300 years of power for his ‘conqueror’ descendants compared to 8000 of some respected houses. And more than anything, he doesn’t want to be stuck in the muggle Middle Ages for the rest of his life!

He wants Magic!

He wants a family!

He wants a Manor to call his own. A place to feel safe. He wants _comfort_!

And he will have it.

He isn’t a mage for nothing after all. More so, he doesn’t even feel human anymore. Not after the surprise that was his inheritance, that’s for sure…

And so he decided to stay. Right there in the Bone Mountains. Because it was a place no sane person would ever willingly inhabit. A place no one would ever think to look for him. Or for magic.

So Draco, likely affected by his dragon-self in its nesting frenzy, went a little overboard. And his intention of making a _small_ home in the mountains went out the window. Because the Palace his magic shaped the Peak into? It was anything _but_ ‘little’.

And he and his little one were stuck with a polished monstrosity that regardless of Draco’s futile attempts to furbish and decorate, remained rather barren save for a couple of rooms. But then again, maybe he should have had some second thoughts over styling the thing after a bizarre combination of the Durmstrang Institute and Malfoy Manor.

And that was a good thing.

In a way.

It gave him motivation. A reminder what he must strive for. And hopefully, in a few decades, these empty halls will be full of laughter and magic. He will make sure of it. And if he has to nurture a thousand dragon eggs and blood adopt all those babies (because that was exactly how the Basilisk-binding rituals acted when induced by his power in this world) and buy (or ‘liberate’) millions of squib slaves of Valyrian descent?

He would do it in a heartbeat.

Not forgetting the bloodline servitude contracts of course. Or creating a very rigid hierarchy. Because one thing he doesn’t want is a repeat of the Dance of the Dragons.

And if the mudbloods of his old world would scream that such actions are barbaric and inhumane? Who even asked them? They were always nobodies. Their only use was to dilute stale bloodlines. Nothing more.

And who even cares about being ‘humane’? He certainly _doesn’t_. And neither would his children. Not that he is human any longer. And teaching his offspring the benefits of democracy and human rights in this world would be doing them a great disservice. Because here? Only the strong survive to see the dawn.


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

Luc loved his mama.

His mama was _the best_.

If only Draco stopped treating him like a baby. Because a ‘baby’ that received the memories of its Dragon ancestors and grew a little more with every transformation is as far from normal or helpless as you could get.

But he likes it that way.

Sure, he would like their family to be bigger, to have little brothers he could later choose from to build his own nest with when he is old enough. But that could wait.

Finding mama good mates was much more important.

He wasn’t blind after all. During their trips for supplies into the cities, mama always received his share of hungry stares. Always.

No glamour could stop them.

But so far, none of those he had seen were worthy. And luckily, his mama seemed to be of the same mind. But even so, getting Draco good mates was his top priority. Because he didn’t want to be presented with a fact. A fact he didn’t approve of. A _fact_ that more than likely wouldn’t be worthy.

After all, he did see how his ancestors tended to choose the _Strongest_ for Sires and the _Prettiest_ for the Carriers. But what about _Intellect_? What about _Magic_? What about _Loyalty_?

He didn’t want his loving mama to foolishly drag a ‘ _Strong_ ’ wall of muscles with the brains of a hamster and the vocabulary of a goldfish home out of some kind of misplaced pity. Even if it’s only ‘temporary’. He has seen enough Valyrian mateships in his memories to understand that there is nothing more permanent than something ‘temporary’.

But finding a suitable mate for Mama proved to be a problem.

It wasn’t just that they lived literally in the middle of nowhere. That was only part of it. Even when Mama chose to visit ‘nearby’ cities, there were no viable candidates to be found. Not just because most of the people they met had little to no dragon blood. And those that did had no magic to speak of.

He was sad to admit that he forgot some things. Like how few Valyrian families actually _were_ dragon-riders. Because the others? They didn’t have the magic to be recognized as superior kin even by their dumber dragon cousins that devolved into magical animals for the lack of proper training and sufficient ambient magics. At best, the lesser Valyrians weren’t roasted on the spot when coming into the vicinity of a dragon but that was just about it. The extent of their abilities.

So Targaryen inbreeding made _some_ sense.

But at the end of the day, no matter what they chose to think, they weren’t _actual_ dragons. Just some humans with dragon blood in their veins. Dragon blood that would never fully awaken other than in a rare ‘dragonborn’. It simply _couldn’t_.

Too diluted.

Or too ‘occupied’.

The magic in their blood, that is. Occupied with fighting all the inborn abnormalities. Too occupied to leave any active magic free. And being walking flame-retardants some of the ‘dragon-blooded’ were, was not even close to the extent of a true dragon’s abilities. No matter what some of them chose to think. Especially when a modern-day ‘Valyrian’s’ magic was all used up just to stop its owner from looking like a human-sized orangutan.


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter 56

Drogon felt restless.

Not that _they_ had enough brains to interpret the feeling. Even if their and their siblings’ lives were filled and defined by feelings. From first seeing the light of the fire they were born in, to clamping down onto the nipples of their new mother…

Feelings were just _there_.

They didn’t need to be _understood_.

But sometimes it was the lack of understanding that _mattered_. Because their feelings? They were hardly reliable.

After all, Mother was Mother. She was _everything_. Until they fledglings ( _them_ ) outgrew the nest. After that? She wouldn’t have any say in _anything_. But until then? Until then, helpless hatchlings had to follow their mother. Her lead. And example.

Because the feelings said so.

But who is Mother? Really? Because the one who hatched and nurtured and the one who gave life are two very different things. And _feelings_.

So who is _theirs_?

Daenerys Targaryen the ‘Stormborn’ who fed them from her own teat or the nameless dragoness whose flashes of memory they sometimes glimpsed?

Their choice was obvious.

_But wrong…_

Not that the smart but _still_ animals that were the three terrors of Essos knew that.

And so when they felt the feint hum of _connection, Elder, Nest_ coming not too far from the city their pale-haired mother was Queen of, the abstract feeling was easy to ignore. After all, it’s not like they haven’t overcome their instincts before. It wasn’t like their Mother hadn’t taught them otherwise. That even if you _really_ want to set an annoying two-legged disturbance on fire, you _can’t_. not unless _Mother_ says so. And the Nest? The connection? Mother didn’t _say so_. So why waste their time? Why waste the energy to fly there and then have to struggle to find their place in an already established hierarchy of an existing Nest? After all, their home is with Mother. And they don’t even have to do anything to be accepted.

And if the three animalistic dragons gave up on their potential development and evolution in the moment they chose to follow the easy path? It was their own decision. No one else’s. Giving up on the narrow window of opportunity during which they were still rapidly growing and could accept the magic required to make magical creatures part of a magical race was their choice.

Oh well…

And if Drogon chose not to challenge fate, to not bring a poisoned Daenerys to the source of the _feeling_? The source which could have healed her without breaking a sweat?

Too bad. So sad.

It’s not like Draco needed to have any more mouths to feed.


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

Oberyn Martell was suffering.

As much as someone hung-over in one of the best brothels of Lys is. And so were all his companions. And there were _many_ of those.

But then again, the Red Viper was always generous to his nightly company. Even the pillow-house slaves. After all, just because they would never see any of the money payed for their bodies doesn’t mean that they do not deserve a pleasant experience they would later recall with a fond smile.

And if somewhere deep inside he is still hoping for that long-awaited male Sand…

Well…

He is the only one ( _and Ellaria of course, but she doesn’t count_ ) who would know.

Honestly, he would even marry her if he were the marrying type. If he was to choose from all the women in the world, Ellaria would be his one and only. After all, he just _loves_ Sands. His own and others, doesn’t matter. Many of his lovers could testify.

Even with the attitudes of the Dornish, even with the acceptance of the endless pleasures of the flesh, he would much prefer a Sand over any other. After all, after a lovely night spent together, a Sand wouldn’t kill the mood by saying ‘ _Oh, Oberyn surely we would make a good match! After all, I am a maiden no more! What if my father/uncle/brother marries me off outside of Dorne? Imagine the scandal!_ ’ It was only in the latter years that his personal preference and aversion to marriage became widely known. So _few_ naïve, hopeful or aspiring young maidens chose to focus their husband-hunting skills on him. Though whether on their own accord or through the urging of the same relatives that only some five and ten years back pushed their children for the exact opposite, he couldn’t know.

But regardless of all the wild rumors flowing about Westeros and even Essos, the reason for his lack of a spouse or even a proposal to his Sand of a lover, wasn’t because he wanted to drive his Lordly brother up a wall with his insolence. It wasn’t because he was not certain in his paramour’s ability to give him a _proper_ heir ( _after all, what did the Dornish care for the foolishness of the other Kingdoms?_ ). It wasn’t even so that he could finally marry Ellaria and not become an outcast in aristocratic circles due to the lack of and matrimonial interest towards him from any Westerosi maidens, and more importantly, their parents.

No. That _wasn’t_ it.

Although if anyone was to know that it was his almost betrothal to Cersei Lannister that had put him completely off marriage for the rest of his life, he would surely become laughingstock! So it was a secret. He would not give the Lions any more credit! They don’t deserve it! They have already humiliated the Dornish enough! The only ones that have done so more were the Dragons. Surely it was a good thing that most of them were dead!

But sadly, his power-hungry fool of a brother refused to think so!

Had Oberyn known of Doran’s moronic plan to marry his own daughter to the ‘Beggar King’ and step into the same pile of shit that brought Dorne so much pain, he would have punched him in the face! Because that idiot deserved nothing else!

Luckily, the Seven-accursed Targaryen died without any intervention. All by his own idiocy and family madness!

But now, instead of slipping through the cracks to strike at the exposed throats of their House’s enemies in the latest round in the Game and finally avenging Elia, he is stuck _here_. In _Essos_. Just because the Pauper Princess had done the impossible and spawned dragons! _Yes_ , his brother made some sense in wanting to swear to her cause in return for a marriage to Quentyn. But _why_? Why _bother_?! If Dorne was only part of the Seven Kingdoms because it was beneficial at the time? Surely now, when all the Kingdoms are weak and discontent is brewing, it is the opportune moment to announce independence?!

His stupid brother didn’t think so…sadly.

And now he has to drink his sorrows away and find a way to tell Doran the bad news. That instead of wooing the Princess, Quentyn went for her dragons instead! Dragons, that didn’t appreciate his attentions.

All _he_ was aiming for was some fun! Visit some brothels, gather some news to show that _yes_ , he _was_ occupied with something _useful_ , have an affair with some Valyrian noble, try things he had never dared before. What he definitely _didn’t_ seek to do was bring his nephew’s burnt body back home!

And while Daenerys wasn’t the one to give the order, she was as much the daughter of Aerys as she was the sister of Rhaegar. And where one left charred corpses in his wake, another embarrassed and slayed Martell blood! The Princess certainly isn’t much different after all!

If only he didn’t have to be the bearer of bad news…

Otherwise, he would have even enjoyed the dismayed and constipated expression he could imagine would find its place on Doran’s face. And telling him ‘ _I told you so’_ …


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter 58

Years Earlier…

Prince Rhaegar, regardless of what many thought, _didn’t_ believe in magic.

Oh, he believed in _prophesy_. But _magic_? Not so much…

Had he not seen the dragon skulls of the Red Keep, he would have renounced the existence of the ancestral creatures of House Targaryen, too. Because such monsters couldn’t, no, _shouldn’t_ exist. But the Crown Prince of Westeros was obviously wrong in that case. Perhaps he was even wrong in his thoughts of magic? Who knows?

But even if magic _did_ exist, how come it failed to protect his family? When it was meant to be most concentrated in dragon blood? Why do dragons of House Targaryen still burn? How is it that Rhaegar, who was meant to be the beacon of hope, the sane successor to his insane father was whispered to be the Cursed Prince? That the Prince of Dragonstone more often than not recalled as the Prince of _Summerhall_? After the birth of Viserys, such a moniker brought even more offence. The _Crown Prince_ referred to by the title of the ‘spare’! The _daring_!

For all his paranoia, King Aerys had no say in Rhaegar’s upbringing. That was his grandparents’ area of expertise. _Luckily_. Sadly, not for long.

So when King Aerys, Second of his name, turned his attention onto his heir, said heir was no boy that could be molded into a man but almost a man grown. And so like any father of high birth, King Aerys sought his son a wife. And not an ordinary court lady either. Not even a daughter of a Lord Paramount would do, as his father rudely explained to his once-upon-a-time best friend. No. A bride worthy of the dragonlords must be of pure Valyrian blood. Or mixed, if nothing better is on offer.

Sadly, nothing _was_.

Their personal vassal house, House Velaryon, failed in their bride-providing duty in Rhaegar’s generation. And their cousin House? House Baratheon? Another failure, with their numerous male offspring and not a single girl. And the expedition to Essos for the sake of obtaining a ‘pure’ bride? Another failure.

It was as if the gods, _or more likely the Lords_ , formed a conspiracy. But no other House benefitted from the failures of House Targaryen than House Martell. The disgusting Dornish. Their so-called _relatives_ …

If there was one thing that Rhaegar and Aerys agreed on, it was that Elia Martell was no dragon. And her womb was only good enough to birth fake dragons. Rhaegar checked himself. And so _what_ if his ‘wife’ was scared to make a sound in his presence from that moment on? He _checked_! And she _burned_!

And birthed _Rhaenys_!

 _Yes_ , he understood that naming the girl after the wife of Aegon the Conqueror, the woman cowardly murdered by the treacherous Dornish, was almost an unveiled insult to his wife and her maiden House. But the thing was, he _didn’t_ care. And if the girl couldn’t be more Dornish in looks for all that she belonged to the House of the Dragons? While looks _could_ _be_ deceiving, hers were unfortunately not. Because she burned _just like everybody else_.

And he needed a _proper_ dragon for an heir.

Maybe that was the moment when he seriously turned to prophesy? The Prince that Was Promised. The epitome of what a true Dragon should be! And a proper Conqueror, the Second coming of Aegon, must have his two wives, his Rhaenys and Visenya. Rhaenys already exists. He just needs his Aegon and Visenya now. That’s it!

When he turned his attentions onto Lyanna Stark, he couldn’t say. Well… he could. When his wife only whelped with a single child in all the years they were married and even then, said child had little evidence of their Dragon blood, he started looking elsewhere.

True, his first choice was Cersei Lannister. A proper candidate to birth the next Aegon. Especially with her father’s wealth and Tywin Lannister’s potential support should his own grandson be the one to sit upon the Iron Throne. But for all of Cersei’s benefits, she was still a lady of court. The same as everyone else.

But Lyanna Stark?

That one was something different. Something else. Something with much potential. After all, it requires a warrior to birth the next Visenya. And Lyanna Stark was the only woman who met the description among the women of marrying age and suitable birth that he had met so far.

In the end, when Elia actually managed to birth his Aegon and thus change his opinion of her useless Dornish self, Lyanna Stark was the obvious next choice for a second wife. Especially when his once again useless first wife was declared more likely than not, barren.

At first, everything seemed to go well. He was even surprised by how easy it was to convince the She-Wolf of his ‘love’. But then again, she was no court-butterfly that would see through his plots and plans straight away but still go along with them for the sake of a higher social and material standing.

And everything was well.

Until it _wasn’t_.

Who exactly spread the rumors of the supposed ‘kidnapping’, he couldn’t say. But would like to get his hands around their neck, regardless. And it was with those rumors and the actions of some of the Lords, specifically the She-Wolf’s maiden house, that changed his plans completely.

Because why would he need of a wife that is a daughter of a rebellious House that would more likely than not offer no support to the House of the Dragons? Other than her womb and future daughter, what benefits would such a union bring? Especially at the expense of the loss of Dornish support that while he may despise, are still a formidable force to be reckoned with.

And so the so-called wedding was a well-played farce. After all, a daughter could be named legitimate easily. It wasn’t as if she would be a threat to her legitimate brother-husband. The girl’s only duty would be to birth more dragons. Dragons, the legitimacy and right to rule of which no one would dare question. Not with her marrying her very-much legitimate brother.

So when he left the Tower of Joy for the last time, he left behind paperwork. Important paperwork. Paperwork legitimizing _Visenya_ Targaryen. But Aegon Targaryen? Not so much. After all, why would he need a second ‘Promised Prince’?

And Lyanna?

Well…

She _really_ should have read the fine print.

After all, some poisons, well _normal_ poisons, don’t work on those of concentrated dragon blood like they would on everybody else. Her child would be born perfectly healthy. But Lyanna?

It truly is ironic that the thing to take the She-Wolf’s life would be _wolfsbane_ of all things.

But one thing Rhaegar didn’t know, couldn’t possibly know, was that soon, all his plans would come crashing down. Plans that would have brought victory and prosperity to the Dragon House, had instead brought it to ruin.


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter 59

Brynden felt like he was about to start climbing walls and screaming. Something very undignified for his true age. But then again, his new body and present physical age may have had something to do with his lack of restraint.

Because few could imagine the Bloodraven behaving like a hysterical teenager. Although he _did_ have an excuse. Multiple, even.

First all his as he had mistakenly thought, ‘genius’ plans turned out to be for naught. Not only did the existence of the so-called Promised Prince fall under question but his goal or what he _thought_ was his goal was ridiculous.

Why should he be the only one to care about the threat of the Long Night or the Others? Why? It’s not like Westeros doesn’t have its Lords whose very duty ( _that they usually forget about_ ) is to protect their lands. Why should _he_ or one of his blood relations by way of the Targaryens sacrifice their own well-being and possibly life to protect lands they don’t even consider their home? Especially when ‘heroes’ that gain the trust and praise of the people don’t tend to live or be in positions of influence for long. Because those who are good in battle aren’t necessarily good at anything else. And when one enters the Game, battle prowess often matters very little.

What would he gain by getting involved?

Gratitude of those in power?

Mayhap his old position?

Happiness?

 _As if_ ,,,

If anything, he is more likely to suffer a lethal and absolutely accidental _accident_. Because if there is one thing those in power always have in common it’s that they don’t like to share. So when he saw a way out in the face of a beautiful silver-haired youth, he took it with little hesitation. Frankly, it was more circumstance then his own decision.

But picking up mini-Daemon? That was all on _him_.

And now he just wants to slap the fool who made such a decision in the face. Even if it was _himself_.

It wasn’t just the endless chatter and stupid questions that got to him. Or the similarities with his idiot of a half-brother. No. It was the kid’s fascination with magic. Although that was to be expected from one with the blood of the dragons living in Essos free from the brainwashing of the Faith of the Seven. But what kind of _idiot_ , after being told that _yes_ , magic _is_ real, decides to start throwing balls of fire around?

 _Young Griff,_ apparently.

Because he just wanted to see if he could…

 _Idiot_ …

Well, both of them actually…

Considering that for all that he had followed his feelings, ‘Jon Snow’ was nowhere to be seen. And now the both of them are stuck virtually in the middle of nowhere, staring at the unwelcoming sights of the Poison Sea and the Bone Mountains. Even the raider settlements stood windblown and abandoned. And it didn’t help that the single frantic Dorokai rider they managed to intercept was out of mind with fear rambling about ‘ _Serpents! Huge Serpents! Flying Serpents! Crawling Serpents! Swimming Serpents! Serpents with Death in their eyes! Serpents that chase the Stallion! Serpents! Serpents! Serpents…_ ’

And no matter how they questioned him, his tale didn’t change. They couldn’t help putting the rider out of his misery.

Honestly, at that point, it was a mercy.


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter 60

While Draco enjoyed his new form, the regular flights that reminded him of his days of Quidditch where he sometimes played on par with the likes of Victor Krum, he still wished for a familiar of his own. Because flying yourself and flying upon something were two very different things. And he was hardly about to harness _Lucius_.

But now that he knows that he could hatch and bind members of an intelligent magical race, he would hardly settle for a mindless substitute. So he only had one single option left, really. Hatching Basilisks.

Regardless of what some mudbloods preferred to believe, the actual method for hatching the Kings of Serpents was hardly a secret. _Yes_ , old families like the Malfoys gathered more feasible rituals that resulted in bigger, faster, stronger and more intelligent beasts in the manuscripts passed over among the dowries of the brides from the serpent-speaking houses like the Slytherins and Gaunts to then eventually end up in completely unrelated families through gambling, marriage and blood wars. However, without the awakened abilities towards Parseltongue, such rituals were an absolutely useless death trap, as some idiots had learned by hatching uncontrollable Basilisks that first killed their ‘parent’ and then went on a rampage. So seemingly priceless knowledge and books written in the tongue of serpents ended up being a matter of prestige only. Just being there for the sake of showing off. Useless. Unusable. Untouched. Until Draco got his grabby little hands on them, that is.

But in his life as Draco Malfoy, he wasn’t so careless as to try to go through with what he had learnt. Even if the rituals seemed promising. After all, the times had changed and what was once acceptable and even encouraged was now a sure sign of a dark wizard and dark family that would surely be at the very top of the Ministry’s list for extermination. For the priceless family libraries and artifacts to then ‘miraculously’ end up in the Department of Mysteries or even worse, in some mudblood’s private collection.

But Planetos was a _very_ different thing.

It wasn’t like some fools screaming ‘ ** _WITCH_** ’ and wielding pitchforks was of any danger or hindrance. And putting it crudely, the Faith of the Seven could shove their opinion up where the sun doesn’t shine. Especially in Essos. Especially since Draco had no intention of ever stepping foot in Westeros again. They had made their bed. It was now time to lay in it. And face the consequences.

It was already obvious that the realm could truly take no more. That the people have had enough. That the smallfolk curse and spit in the privacy of their homes at the mention of the Baratheons or the Lannisters (and their allied houses). That many pray for the miraculous return of the Targaryens. Not out of some kind of sense of loyalty, no. Not in most cases. Especially since most of those truly loyal were either dead or freezing their balls off at the Wall. After all, it had been many years. Long enough for the older generation, the ones that still remembered the Silver Prince and the Mad King in all his glory before his madness, succumb to the inevitability of age.

Because the Mad King may have been mad. But his madness didn’t make him that much worse of a King. Yes, he was paranoid beyond all reason. Yes, he did demonstrate the typical Targaryen obsession with fire. Yes, he replaced any and all execution sentences with burnings. But those things only made him a tyrant. Not a bad King. Because at the end of the day, during the reign of the Mad King, the treasury was full. During the reign of the Mad King, the taxes were three times lower than what they were now. After all, during the reign of the Mad King, most of the smallfolk, even those living in the poorest of regions, still had food on their table. Because the Lords were held accountable. First to a brutal ruler and then to a madman. And the Lords obviously didn’t like that.

So that was how the rebellion truly began.

Many discontent Lords with common interests. A King that refused to abolish all the unpopular laws his own father introduced. Because while Aerys cared little about the small folk, and found giving them rights a laughable concept, he found that some laws, namely those that regulated the taxes and held the Lords accountable were justified. And of course the Lords that were used to generations of free reign in their domains with the King being a distant figurehead that held no power to hold them accountable for anything. More so with the extinction of the dragons.

But in his growing madness, Aerys didn’t see it so.

So the Lords conspired.

Two fosterings.

Three marriage alliances, one of which fell through. But only to the mutual benefit of the conspirators.

The North wanting independence.

The Stormlands wanted the crown.

The Vale – power.

And the Riverlands, political marriages together with beneficial trade contracts.

And so the Dragons fell.

With Draco refusing to associate with them, the formerly prospering house Targaryen was reduced to just one member. A member made important in the Game only though her ‘mothering’ of Dragons. And while Draco didn’t have the extent of her ambitions, he wasn’t ambition _less_. Although he wanted nothing to do with the bother of being a conqueror. He was no Gryffindor. Far from it. But if he wanted to build his own empire ( _hopefully_ , being a little optimistic) from the ground, up, a concealed and well-protected territory was a good start.

So his desire to hatch some Basilisks fit in very nicely in the grand scheme of things…

Although in his enthusiasm to obtain something he previously thought unobtainable although tempting in being long-forbidden, he may have went a little overboard. Maybe he shouldn’t have done the rituals with something not being just the plain old chicken eggs. But then again, where was he supposed to find _chickens_ in the _mountains_?! So eagle and even some mutated albatross ??? (that found that the Poison Sea is a _lovely_ breeding ground) eggs he was stuck with.

So if the end result wasn’t quite what he was initially looking for, it was hardly surprising.


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline for my fic is skewed and some events are different from canon so if something doesn't match up, that's why.

Chapter 61

Sansa felt herself shaking with rage. Especially in the face of a victorious Margery Tyrell. The one who had everything while she got nothing! Margery was a thief of the worst sort! Because no matter what, Sansa refused to believe herself to be in the wrong. The day when her father told her to run home with her tail between her legs, she did the _right_ thing! She was _born to be_ Queen! Her mother _said so_!!!

But she had lost…

Everything…

Not only her father, who Joffrey promised would only be sent to the Wall. The Wall isn’t so terrible as those southerners would paint it anyway. Otherwise her father wouldn’t have insisted in sending his favorite bastard there! And surely Uncle Benjen’s stories (that Sansa _definitely_ didn’t hear about as no proper Lady should know of such things) about how all the Black Brothers revere House Stark and would bow down to all and any Wolf. Even a bastard one.

But her father had to play the stubborn noble fool until the very end and open his mouth! And so now that cunt Margery has got herself Sansa’s Prince! But Sansa? How did that cowardly Stag (or Lion if her father is to be believed) repay her for her loyalty?!

With marriage…

But not a royal one.

Sansa ‘Lannister’ nee Stark despised her new ‘husband’. She could now see where her father was coming from. Joffrey wasn’t her dream Prince anymore. Margery could have him!

But what had Sansa done to deserve a disgusting Imp in place of a promised Prince Charming from her mother’s tales?! A stinking cesspit in place of a sparkling palace! A tangled ball of vipers in place of beautiful and kind court ladies!

And the worst of all was the head viper.

The Queen mother.

 _Cersei_.

Her _goodsister_.

Oh, Sansa would rather marry the disfigured Imp over _Joffrey_. Honestly, she would prefer literally _anyone_ over the so-called ‘Crown Prince of Westeros’ _now_. And she couldn’t help but believe her father’s words. Because how could such a monster be legitimate? If all the ‘Royal’ children were borne of incest, then there is at least one true thing of the South that her mother had taught her. That bastards were no good. The sinful animals that only knew to seek to steal their rightful siblings’ place and sate their own disgusting desires.

Sansa would rather _die_ than to marry a bastard.

But then again, Tywin Lannister’s Bane was hardly _better_.

It was as if the entire world had conspired to bring despair to Sansa Stark. At first she didn’t even understand what had happened. When that despicable bastard disappeared somewhere, alike her Lady mother, Sansa was _glad_. Because Jon Snow was the bane of her existence.

It wasn’t just that he was Robb’s age making him a real threat to their birthright should he be legitimiZed, but his attitude. Where another Snow would try to grow closer to their trueborn siblings in hope to earn a place in their household as her mother always told her, her so-called _brother_ didn’t seem to care. _At all_. Sometimes, when she caught him looking, his gaze wasn’t filled with longing, hatred or envy, the things understandable for a bastard. No. It was _contempt_.

As if _them_ , the trueborn Starks were something lesser or _lacking_.

Honestly, most of them were relieved and couldn’t understand her Lord Father’s fury. After all, what is in one bastard? Compared to all his trueborn children, a Snow was worth less than a Stag. _Nothing_. Born as nothing to live having nothing and die having nothing. That was the duty of a bastard.

Sometimes late at night, Sansa would even fantasize. What would be if she was _the_ Lady Stark? In her mother’s place? Oh, she would certainly throw the disrespectful nuisance out into the cold snow where he _truly_ belongs. Or better yet, send him to the Wall. Honestly, she still doesn’t understand how her own Lady mother could bear the shame of his existence for so long…

But that was a thing of the past.

What happened afterwards at first had seemed like a dream come true but turned into her worst nightmare. She was going to the Red Keep to become a Princess! While one thing she would have preferred to avoid was Arya’s presence, at the time she chose to bear it. After all, perhaps the tactless barbarian would gain some manners? Or maybe some Lord might chose to wed her sister out of pity regardless of her strangeness and lack of proper conduct? Although the shame her younger sister brought to her by her mere existence, Sansa could have lived without.

But her dreams crashed into pieces. And while she did tell Joffrey of her father’s plans to leave the Red Keep, she still believes that she had done the right thing at the time. If only her father was still alive, if sent to the Wall! After all, was it not him who said that taking the Black is a great honor? If only Joffrey held true to his word, she would have been a Queen! Not a voiceless hostage to keep her older brother in line!

Luckily, the world is not without wonderful people. She probably couldn’t have lived with the shame of being defiled by a disfigured Imp. But by the time of their ‘marriage’, she was no virgin. And she would be lying if she were not to admit that it was the best night of her life. Oh, it was just like she expected and dreamed of! With petals of roses and sheets of the finest silk! And so what that the man she was with was old enough to be her father? Or that he was her mother’s best friend? Although she is still confused at getting called Cat in the morning. But that wasn’t what she thought it was about! Petyr said so! The servants in the Red Keep surely are lazy and spoiled for letting animals wander into their masters’ chambers! And finally, there couldn’t have been anything between Petyr and her mother because her Lady mother would have told her! And Petyr loved _her_! _Lady Stark_! He _told_ her so!

Oh, if only she could have married him instead! But he told her that they will be together. She believes him! Surely he will take her to Riverrun and they will be happy in the Riverlands! After all the things she has been through, she _deserves_ to be!

If only foolish Sansa knew that the Imp she was raining curses upon was probably the best thing that could have happened to her. And that _Petyr_ that she had such a high opinion of, wasn’t even _half_ the man the misshaped Lannister was. Not with a redheaded whore of certain resemblance to a certain highborn Lady in every single one of his brothels. Not that a smart person would ever be so foolish as to call a _brothel owner_ , honorable. But if there was one word one would use to describe Sansa Stark, it surely wouldn’t be _smart_.


	62. Chapter 62

Chapter 62

Margeary twisted one of her golden-brown locks on her finger. Of course, her gesture was nothing akin to a crude serving girl that desired to catch a client’s attention. No. Nothing like it. After all, her Lady Grandmother taught her better than that.

But that hardly means that she cannot be elegantly coy. Or giggle at stupid or even crude jokes that entirely lack humor. Or smile when there is nothing to smile about but the mood of those in power calls for it. But right now, she could _afford_ to act coy. Act victorious. For she is to be crowned as Queen. An actual Queen. Not just one of Thorns.

Of course the groom isn’t the one that was initially intended. But _that_ is even better. For Tommen Baratheon, being only an impressionable child, ignored in favor of his elder brother and coincidentally Heir of the Seven Kingdoms, would hardly ignore the opinion of his _well-meaning_ and _sweet_ wife. For well-meaning and sweet she will be. She will love Tommen’s kittens and tell him tales of far-away lands. She will smile and pat his head. Anything really, as long as it is her who is doing it. And not the ‘Queen Mother’. Not Cersei.

So she will act. Be a mummer’s Princess, until she is one in truth. Be the timid, kind thing of fairy-tales and old stories told to babes and commoners, that truly have no idea what it means to be, to be born a Lord. Or Prince. Or Princess…

She has invested too much into the act as it is. First with Renly Baratheon, but alas, her actions were wasted on him. For what good is a husband that fails to perform his duty even on the wedding night?! Had her grandmother known of his _deviations_ , she would have never allowed such a marriage to pass. Because finding out that her husband prefers to bed her own _brother_ over _her_ , is a kick her ego took a while to recover from. But sadly, her Lord father is a fool. In this, she completely agrees with her Lady Grandmother. For he has all the ambitions but none of the intelligence or cunning of a true Tyrell. Little better than talk. And empty words. Or even _worse_ , words that are as foolish as they are binding…

Sometimes, she thinks it would have been better if her Lady Grandmother slipped her defective son some poison during breakfast considering the troubles his big mouth had got them into over the years. Because surely Willas, for all that he is a cripple, would be the better Lord. But then again, Grandmother, for all her ruthlessness is no kin-slayer. And in some aspects, a fool for a Lord that will follow most of the commands of his own mother is much better than a Lord that takes much more after the Queen of Thorns herself and not her ‘late’ husband.

So Margeary straightened the bodice of her flowing dress of silk and satin that made her resemble a beautiful rose, and held her head high. But didn’t forget to throw smiles of helpless innocence. After all, it’s the foolish girls that most find attractive. Not the smart ones. But the key of the trick is only to pretend at being a gullible idiot. Lest she ends up like her predecessor, Sansa Stark.

Honestly, that girl was a helpless airhead if Margeary ever saw one. And while they _did_ foster some plans to marry the girl to one of her Tyrell brothers to gain Northern support for ‘saving’ the foolish thing, those plans only remained unfulfilled plans. And for good reason.

Because it was hard not to see that the stupid thing took a liking to _Baelish_ of all people. And then the Red Wedding happened.

And if there was one thing the Tyrells couldn’t afford to do, it was antagonize the man with one of the largest spy networks in Westeros. Especially if the benefits are questionable at best and do not outweigh the risks. His ‘friendships’ with Lysa Arryn and Catelyn Stark also didn’t help matters. So when he approached them to negotiate ‘saving’ Sansa ‘Lannister’ nee Stark unhindered, her Lady Grandmother had to compromise. And the Queen of Thorns _hated_ compromising. But sometimes, needs must.

It was only an added benefit that the old Lion perished at the hand of his own son. Because Tyrion Lannister was as much his son as Jaime. Regardless how the man disliked to be reminded of _that_ relation. But then again, death by his own _Bane_. The _irony_ …

And now the Tyrells have it all. Have overtaken the Lions in the race for the Iron Throne. She is to be Queen. She will get everything she ever wanted. But sometimes, all her achievement feel… hollow. When she was younger she dreamed of her very own fairy-tale Prince. Of love at first site. Of being the most beautiful of them all… That is until her Grandmother saw what _exactly_ her dunderhead of a gooddaughter was reading to her children. Saying that she put a swift stop to it, was saying it _lightly_. And while Margeary is forever grateful to Lady Olenna for preventing her from growing to be a fool on par with Sansa, she also regrets. Regrets losing that childhood innocence she will never be able to get back. Regrets her own naiveté for all that it was useless, for the sense of confidence and security it brought her.

Because now, she isn’t just some Pawn in the Game of Thrones. She is a Queen on the way to becoming a Player. And for all the power such a thing affords her, it also comes at a cost of awareness. Awareness that all her actions are her own. And their consequences are something she will eventually reap. For better or for worse.

And sometimes, she cannot help but think of the Dragons. Of the Dragon Princes that brought her family to Power. Of those very well capable of taking it away. And sometimes, when she lays sleepless in her marriage bed, she cannot help but wonder, what if her husband was a true Dragon Prince? Not a questionable Baratheon with a high likelihood of being a Bastard borne of incest, but a true blood of the Dragons? For sure laying claim to one of their bewitching beauty would be a much more rewarding prize in the Game?

But if she is right, then why did her Lady Grandmother prefer the man she _herself_ still refers to as the ‘Oaf of Highgarden’ over her captivating Targaryen betrothed?

Sadly, or thankfully, some things are a matter of the past. The un-reclaimable past. For the Valyrian ‘descendants’ of Essos and the few families of dragon blood such as the Celtigars remaining in Westeros are as close as she is ever going to get to seeing a Dragonlord, or Seven forbid, a _Dragon_. Because the only member of house Targaryen left is a Pauper Princess that was married off to a Horselord.

Because real life is as far from a fairy-tale as can get.

The Rose of Highgarden would do well to remember that.


	63. Chapter 63

Chapter 63

Killing his father was easy. _Too_ easy. For an Imp like him that is.

The only regret he has is having to kill the witness. The whore in Tywin Lannister’s bed. But then again, his father did worse than just kill the one in his. Because regardless of being a baseborn whore, she was his wife. And only he had the right to harm her. To punish her. Not his father. Certainly not his father’s men.

And while she was just a whore that sold herself to him just like she did to many others, that sense of comfort and companionship they shared for a few short weeks re-payed it in full. Because for the very first time in his miserable, miserable life, he finally knew what it was like to be happy. Even if it didn’t last. Even if it wasn’t real. Even if paradise turned into a tragedy.

But for all that his father was seemingly acting in his interests, he was never able to forgive the man. Not about something like that.

So killing Tywin Lannister was the understandable culmination of the disaster that was the life of his Bane. Because with no Tywin Lannister, Tyrion won’t be anyone’s Bane anymore. Or if he is, it will be through his own choices and actions and not just because he had the bad luck to be born.

For all that Tyrion was a true Lannister through right of birth and inheritance, it was as if the gods had seen to it to have a laugh at his expense. An Imp. The Bane. An unwanted child. An unwanted heir. An unwanted brother. Unloved. Unwanted. Hated.

But he learnt to wear it like armor. After all, it won’t hurt him anymore if it is true. So he drank himself into oblivion among the soft, grasping arms of Baelish’s whores. The best any money could buy. And after a while he could even pretend that the fact that most of them have their eyes closed is because of ecstasy and not the lack of wish to see his face. To see him.

But at the end of the day, who even cares about the opinions and lives of some whores?

He certainly _doesn’t_.

Not after Tysha.

After all, she wasn’t any different.

What about family, some innocent idiot might ask…

Tyrion hardly had anyone he considered his family anymore. Oh, he loved them. Even the most distant cousins that spat in his direction. Even his bitch of an elder sister. Even his Kingslaying traitor of a brother. But he could hardly handle seeing the sight of their disgusted faces anymore, Tommen and Myrcella are sweet children. Nothing like that monster Joffrey. Fine of face but wretched outside. Just like his lady-mother. A child learns by example after all.

But for all that he despised Joffrey, he would have never wished death upon his stupid, spoiled golden head. Because that boy, legitimate or not (most likely _not_ ), Waters or Baratheon, was of his own blood.

Then again, so was Tywin Lannister. And he still killed him.

So maybe there is something wrong with him. The Lannister that doesn’t agree with killing children but strikes down his own flesh and blood. Commits one of the gravest sins in the eyes of the Seven. Slays his own father.

But he would never be anyone’s scapegoat. He was no sacrificial lamb.

And if the Seven won’t agree, he would stand before different gods.

If the new King would seek to condemn him, he will find himself a different monarch to swear himself to. After all, they do say that the Pauper Princess is no Horselord’s whore anymore. Not that he believes that, For she may not have her Horselord to give herself to, sell herself for an army, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others. Because once a whore, always a whore. It is just the simple truth of the matter. And at heart, all women are whores. Whether giving themselves to their husbands for new dresses or jewelry or getting payed more openly in some brothel. He has yet to meet a woman who wasn’t a whore. Once he had thought he did. But he is even thankful to his Lord father to opening his eyes to the truth of the matter. Because in the end, Tysha was nothing special, the same as everybody else. A whore.

But they now say that the Whore Princess, the last dragonspawn is a true dragonspawn now. For she hatched dragons. And that makes a previously powerless girl a player in the game. But for all her newly acquired power, it’s not like she would even know how to use it. She will need those that would guide her. Give her advice.

And he just has to be at the right place at the right time.

As for being a Lannister?

Well…

Killing Tywin would cover part of his faults. Otherwise, he has always been good at pouring mead into maiden ears. And hopefully the Princess would forget something she shouldn’t. Because once a Lannister, always a Lannister.

And no matter his relationship with the rest of the family, it is his responsibility to bring the name to glory.

For he is a Lion.

And they will hear him roar.

But as Tyrion Lannister made his escape from the cesspit of Kingslanding, not once did he think of his _other_ ill-begotten wife.

And so for all that he meant her no ill, fate and luck had seen to it to turn away from Sansa Stark another time more.

But that was just how it was. A little girl with dreams of sweet princes and beautiful princesses should have known better than to try to play the Game. Especially from the position of Queen. For there were two Queens, a white and a black already on the board. They didn’t need competition.

In that moment though, the moment her new husband forgot of her, Sansa lost her only chance of becoming the Red Queen to her Joker. But some things were simply not meant to be.


End file.
